


Player vs Player

by Cutthroat In Carolina (Illmerica), Illmerica



Category: DCU (Comics), Homestuck, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Static Shock, Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Everyone That Dies Gets Better, I Mean People Still Die But They're Fine, Illustrated, Multi, POV Multiple, Post-Canon, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-08-15 12:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 66,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8057224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illmerica/pseuds/Cutthroat%20In%20Carolina, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illmerica/pseuds/Illmerica
Summary: “It’s hard to pin down an exact reason as to what could cause so many environmental shifts and technological failures. My best guess is a God-like being, capable of reality alteration. Malicious intent is incredibly possible, but given the spottiness and the debatable harmless nature of the phenomena it’s producing, I think that it would be more likely the being is either confused or lost on Earth and is trying to find it’s way back to wherever it originated from.”





	1. acce22 granted i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 00110010 00110000 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 00110000

**Official Rules and Regulations**

  1. Substantial damage to any universe, no matter the cause, is means for immediate removal.
  2. Submitting co-players to authorities through direct means is not allowed.
  3. Any past travesties and experiences should be left unmentioned to all universe inhabitants.
  4. Humans are required to wear status at all times.
  5. Once captured, you are removed. The final player to survive wins.



 

* * *

 

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] accessed CORE BATCOMPUTER CP --

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] accessed ORACLE DRIVE --

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling Oracle [Oracle] \--

Oracle: What? Who is this?

TA: hey

TA: you

Oracle: What are you doing? How did you even get on this network?

TA: that doe2nt matter

TA: ii have 2ome iinformatiion ii thiink youll want two hear

TA: 2ome iin2iider2 iinformatiion

TA: ju2t do me a favor and iimagiine me wiiggliing my eyebrow2 riight now

Oracle: Look “twinArmageddons”, I don’t know what you think you’re doing but this isn't a funny little prank.

Oracle: Your IP address changes every ten seconds and you somehow managed to install a foreign messaging system that all my searches say has never existed before into my heavily encrypted computer systems. All without alerting me to what you’re doing.

Oracle: Not to mention this ridiculous misspelt typing filter you’ve added over all of your text.

Oracle: Either way, you have to understand that I don’t plan to trust ANYTHING you say. In fact, I would rather just report you and track your location. Possibly send a team in to apprehend your equipment and interrogate you.

TA: huh

TA: wow

TA: well at lea2t you all arent completely 2tupiid

TA: why ii dare two 2ay iim almo2t fuckiing iimpre22ed

Oracle: Excuse me?

TA: lii2ten two me okay

TA: there are people you need two fiind that you dont know you need two fiind yet and ii can help you

TA: fiind them, that ii2

TA: all you have two do iis iignore everythiing you ju2t 2aiid you would do and tru2t what iim sayiing iin2tead. then youll know where two get your guy2

TA: ea2y pea2y lemon fuckiing squeezy

Oracle: And just who are “my guys” exactly?

TA: ii cant tell you that

Oracle: Truly enlightening.

Oracle: You must realize that this continued vague anonymity is inspiring all of zero confidence in what you’re trying to sell me.

Oracle: Your story might be even minutely more believable if you shared with me just who YOU are though.

TA: and help you fiind me?? iim not a gogdamn iidiiot

TA: no one can know where ii am riight now iif they do then iits game over okay

Oracle: Game over?

Oracle: Are you in danger where you are? If you need help there are easier ways to get attention, not to mention MUCH less illegal.

TA: fuck

Oracle: Hello? Are you okay?

TA: look ii gotta go ju2t do me a favor and thiink about what ii saiid

TA: youll want my help iif you want to fiind them before

TA: 2hiitfuck

TA: oh gogdamn bulge

Oracle: Before? Before what?

Oracle: TA hello? What’s happening over there?

Oracle: Where are you? I can send help, just TELL me!

TA: iill talk two you agaiin later

\-- twinArmageddons [TA]'s computer was smashed! --

Oracle: Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The current plan is to update this once a week on either Saturdays or Sundays, I won't make any promises on it though. Chapter lengths will vary, but pretty much _all_ of them will be longer than this. Swear.


	2. Question: Be Introduced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a moment frozen in time. The young girl is caught in the act of lunging forward, her long fangs exposed in a snarl and her ashen gray face framed with a thick wild tangle of black hair. Eight pupils—the irises a near-black shade of blue and the sclera a dangerous yellow—are focused towards the camera. She looks no older than sixteen year old girl, at best.
> 
> “That’s just what I’m recruiting you to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The version of the DCU I'm using for this story is just a combination of all my general favorite parts of the fandoms listed at the top, so try to keep that in mind as the story continues if the continuity throws you off.  
> — Illmerica

Your name is Charles Szasz, VIC SAGE as far as anyone else needs to know. Most of the time you go by the alias THE QUESTION, an INVESTIGATIVE REPORTER turned CONSPIRACY THEORIST turned SUPERHERO VIGILANTE. Through your favorite pastime — INVESTIGATING YOUR SO-CALLED ‘CRACKPOT’ THEORIES and EXPOSING GOOD-FOR-NOTHING POLITICIANS AND BUSINESSMEN TO THE PUBLIC THROUGH NEWS MEDIA — you’ve turned the population’s attention to the secrets the world’s trying to hide from them, one CLASSIFIED FILE and THEORY at a time.

“Attention please, attention everyone.”

The room is loud, over one hundred people having over one hundred conversations at once. You’d be annoyed if you didn’t understand their curiosity with the situation. Still, it takes Martian Manhunter several times to get even the majority’s attention.

“Apologies for the delays, we’ve been having several communication difficulties. We’ll be starting in just a moment.”

All those who’d quieted each wait a moment to see if he has anything more to say, but Manhunter simply nods his head and turns back to the computer module he’s been fiddling with. Conversations pick back up flawlessly, ranging from gossip on daily life to rumors about the reasons for this mass assembly in the first place. You block most of it out, but keep your ears open for any keywords.

It isn’t often that the original core of the Justice League call for attendance mandatory meetings, maybe once every two years at best, and they’re often only for high-stakes or potential world-ending events — which, while surprisingly often, can usually be handled by a large handful of heavy hitters at most.

They don’t bother to call in the normal everyday heroes for Darkseid or the Anti-Monitor. Not if they don’t want them to wind up dead.

That little fact in of itself begs some questions, given the general casual air of the entire affair. Not to mention the fact that, despite this being required, there are some _very_ obvious absences. Batman, most notably, hasn’t shown his face—a soon-to-be blemish on his otherwise perfect attendance record—while almost all of the Green Lanterns are nowhere to be found. Of them only Hal Jordan is present, which is underwhelming at best and disappointing at worst. Green Arrow is similarly missing, though that in and of itself isn’t exactly much of a rare occurrence, and the same could be said for the Flash — you aren't quite surprised with everything that's happened in Central and Keystone lately, but that still marks it up to two absent founders for a 'mandatory' announcement.

It's enough to pique your interest.

Huntress lets out a huff and bumps her shoulder into yours. “That’s probably the fourth time he’s said that.” She gripes. “Besides, I’m not even considered a full-time member anymore. Why do _I_ have to be here?”

“You’re only on probation.” You point out. After a moment, you reach up to stroke her hair. She hums in content. “Just two more months.”

“Don’t even remind me.”

There’s an abrupt _pop_ , short and high pitched like a light bulb switching on. The wide holoscreen at the front of the room finally flickers to life, thin lines of text slowly scrolling past on them. The words are too small a font to read from your seat, but it doesn’t take a genius to notice they aren’t written in English. A closer inspection makes it clear the alphabet used isn't even of Earth.

You give Huntress a nudge off your shoulder when Green Lantern goes to stand at the head of the table.

“Alright, well, I guess I’ll keep this simple.” He begins. “We were sent a distress call from Oa. According to them, some human-like monster showed up in the Guardian City and damaged the Power Battery before completely disappearing.” He purses his lips, giving the room a moment to absorb the information. Despite his lax reputation, it's clear he's actually putting in an effort to seem professional for once. “All sectors have been put on high alert and all Green Lanterns recalled to help look for them.”

Supergirl bolts up, inches from standing out of her seat. “Is that where John went?” Martian Manhunter, Steel, and Red Tornado all turn to look at her, and she pauses, sitting back down and sheepishly adding “ _Stewart_ , John Stewart. Sorry.”

“All the other Lanterns have already left.” Green Lantern nods. “I’m the only one still on Earth.”

Plastic Man taps his fingers on the table. “Okaaaaaaay _but_ ,” He draws out the syllables, neck stretching to rest his chin on the table beside his hand. “Couldn’t you have just sent out a memo on this or something? I don’t know about you guys, but _some_ people here have things to do. Hobbies, day-jobs, the whole biz.”

Hawkman’s feathers ruffle. “As much as I hate to agree with someone like _him_ ,” He gestures towards the other as if to justify his distaste. “He has a point.”

“Wow, rude.” Plastic Man says.

Before the rather banal conversation can go any further, Superman stands from his seat—where he’d been _suspiciously_ quiet thus far—and clears his throat. “The reason we’re all here today is because, similar to the Green Lantern sectors, Earth is on high alert.” Superman announces.

You straighten in your seat and Huntress hisses a soft “The _fuck_?” towards you, grabbing your arm like she’s trying to get your attention. It takes a second of internal pause, but you pat at her hands and hope she’ll take the hint to quiet down before she catches someone’s attention. The rest of the room looks almost like it’s been frozen in surprise.

“We have reason to believe that beings similar to what appeared on Oa are on Earth, and we have reason to believe that they are incredibly dangerous.”

Mister Terrific holds up his hand. “Your wording seems to suggest that we have more than _just_ reason.” His tone isn’t accusatory in any form, but the way Superman stops and turns to look at him is telling enough.

“Are you lying to us?” Zatanna asks.

“We've decided to withhold any further information until there are more conclusive results.” Manhunter interjects.

Vixen's fists slam into the tabletop, shoulders hunched like a cat. “ _'_ _Conclusive’_? Bullshit! If there's something so dangerous on Earth that those space rangers are worried, I think we all have the right to know about it!” Murmurs of agreement and nodding heads crop up around the room; Hawk lets out a wordless yell of assertion, while Dove worriedly pulls him back into his seat. “What do you think gives you the authority to call us all here, waste our time, then tell us there’s something on Earth that could be dangerous, might _kill people_ for all we know, only to refuse to tell us anything more because you want to wait for it to be _‘conclusive’_! If know about these _things_ then we should be doing something about them!”

“Get control of yourself.”

Vixen leaps from her seat and whirls, holding her hands out as if ready to claw at someone. Behind her stands Batman, the white slits of his eyes narrowed to the point of them almost being closed. He’s leaned over, arched above her like a bent shadow.

Batman glares at her then looks to the rest of the room. “That’s all. Dismissed.” He stalks towards the door, despite the fact that he only just arrived.

“ _Batman_.” Wonder Woman scolds. “We aren’t done here yet.”

He throws a glance over his shoulder at her, considering, before he barks out a brisque, “Superman has decided to leave Earth to help search for the creature, now _dismissed._ ” and strides out the door.

Wonder Woman and Superman look at one another for a long moment, before she waves her hand. “I suppose that is all for today.” Wonder Woman says, a frustrated sigh through grit teeth. “Thank you for your time, and we wish you safe travels back home.”

Vixen is the first to march from the room, huffing and puffing like a child who's just been released from time-out, but Superman and Wonder Woman both sweep after her just moments later. The air is almost awkward, and you watch your colleagues whisper amongst themselves as they gather their things.

It’s obvious Batman’s sudden appearance—and then immediate _disappearance_ —has thrown the majority for a loop, especially in addition to the new information that’s come to light. People don’t like important secrets being kept from them, especially if the fact they don’t know is all but flaunted in front of their faces. You would know. You suppose you should be more surprised that Superman decided to go off-planet for such a random happenence, but there _is_ a reason most of the League’s nicknamed him the Blue Boyscout.

As usual, you wait for the thick of the crowd to wander off to wherever it is they’ve decided to go. Huntress stays with you, hopping up to sit on the table, and would be near silent if not for the constant tap of her fingernails against the tabletop. You can tell she’s mulling over everything, and if there’s one thing she shouldn’t do, it’s mull.

You brush some stray hairs behind her ear, the way you know she thinks is romantic. You don’t mind putting in the extra effort, despite how non-instinctual all these little nuances are to you. “Want to talk about it?”

Huntress snorts at you, effectively distracted. “I’m surprised you don’t.” She playfully taps where your nose would be and smirks, but the tilt is her head is curious. “What, don’t have any theories cooked up in there yet? I thought this was your specialty.”

“A few.” You admit. “This could be linked to some of the phenomenons I’ve been tracking for the past week; changes in temperature of some Northern air currents, disruptions in Pacific ecosystems. It’s possible even the sudden satellite blackout in the Midwest is related.”

She snickers, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure the research team would be _thrilled_ to have your professional opinion on the matter. Maybe you should go tell them all about it.”

“As if anyone on this space station listens to what I have to say.”

Huntress flutters her eyelashes. “But you’ve still posted all your findings on the Watchtower’s communal computer systems just in case, haven’t you?”

Ever since you began your career as a vigilante, you’d made a point to never delude yourself into thinking that many people would be inclined to believe in your theories, not until concrete evidence had been presented. Even years later you’ve managed to continue with that mindset, but you still like to give the rest of the League the opportunity to read what you’ve found. Just in case (in case you happen to die an—incredibly likely, at this rate—premature death). You suppose it could be called a bad habit, but you aren’t sure you’ll ever be able to stop yourself.

You pause. “Maybe.”

Huntress shrugs and hops off the table, sending an intent look just over your shoulder. She saunters in front of your seat, running her hand over the line of your shoulders. “Well maybe today’s the lucky day.” She winks and then, to someone else, “Oh, funny thing seeing _you_ here!”

Batman says nothing in response, just stares Huntress down. You're more focused in finding just what entrance he used to appear undetected in the room for a second time today.

“Fine fine.” Huntress says, clearly putting work into sounding as exasperated as the both of you know she isn’t. “I’ll leave you boys to it.” She ducks down long enough to give you a peck on the cheek, tilt your fedora at just the wrong angle, and then she’s gone.

Batman doesn't bother with pleasantries. He gives you a look that lasts all of four seconds, before he goes for the door opposite to where Huntress just exited.

“Follow me.” Batman growls more than says.

You aren't surprised when he leads you to the Zeta Beams, and you’re somehow even less surprised that when the blue glow of the beams die down you’re left in a cave. The Batcave is infamous among Leaguers, both for the cartoonish name and the selectivity of allowed guests. You yourself have never been allowed inside, but you’ve seen pictures of the interior before, so the feeling of complete awe is somewhat dampened but still noticeably present. The dinosaur is much larger than you’d estimated it to be, at least.

“Limestone?” You tap a knuckle against a nearby wall. “A little soft for an impenetrable fortress. Mix a little limestone powder with some graphite and we’re sitting in a powder keg.”

He doesn’t look at you, just sweeps out from the crevice where the Zeta Pad is tucked away, out into the main chamber of the room. You follow after, taking in as much as the decor—and weapons, escape routes, and potential hiding places for potential ambushes—as you can in the short walk. Sprawling across one of the largest walls of the cave is a massive interconnected web of screens, some lit up to show current surveillance footage and others with what you recognise as mobster profiles. The largest of the screens is powered down.

“I’ve read your reports.” Batman says. On cue, the center screen powers on to show a fast-scrolling, cropped together rendition of all the irregularities you’d recorded and posted over the week.

You place a hand over your heart. “Consider me honored.”

“The spectrum of research you’ve conducted on the subject is broad. Much too broad to draw any real factual conclusions on the meager information you have. Why do you think any of these things are connected?”

“The time lapses between the start of each anomaly is hours at most. Taking into consideration the different time zones, these differences are practically inconsequential. They’re all connected, if not by _their_ source then by the source of their source.”

Batman glances over his shoulder, away from the bright glow of the Batcomputer. It makes him look almost ghostly. With your personal observations of him throughout your years in the League, you’d long ago disproven any theories of potential supernatural origins for him. Sometimes it’s still hard to remind yourself of that.

“Have you ever considered it’s nothing but a simple series of coincidences?”

At that, you can’t help but chuckle into your hand. What a classic response. “‘Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times, it’s enemy action.’”

The moment drags, Batman’s expression rigid as he seems to mull over your answer. You direct your attention back to the multitude of screens, letting your eyes skim over the nights upon nights’ work you’ve uploaded to the Watchtower’s drive. A part of you almost wants to be flattered, but you’re too consumed by suspicious curiosity as to just what he needs from you. For someone so blunt, he’s spending a curiously long amount of time dancing around the subject.

“The only thing you failed to record was your conclusion from your findings.”

You pause. “Like you said, it’s a wide and otherwise unconnected series of events happening around the globe. It’s hard to pin down an exact reason as to what could cause so many environmental shifts and technological failures.” Similar to before, he remains silent, but this time you can feel the expectant disbelief. You give a half-sigh. “My best guess is a God-like being, capable of reality alteration. Malicious intent is _incredibly_ possible, but given the spottiness and the debatable harmless nature of the phenomena it’s producing, I think that it would be more likely the being is either confused or lost on Earth and is trying to find it’s way back to wherever it originated from.”

Batman turns back to the keyboard, typing out a series of key combinations across the blank buttons. Your report disappears and the screen returns to black, and for a short moment you think you’re finished here.

“Do you have any knowledge as to Green Arrow’s current whereabouts?” Batman asks suddenly.

The first place your mind decides to go is  _dead_ , but common sense tells you that if he'd actually passed away then you would've already heard of it by now. You take your time to think the inquiry over for a moment, roll it around in your mind like chocolate on your tongue. “He was absent today at the mandatory League assembly, so I would assume either he’s incredibly hungover at the moment or in the hospital.”

Another set of button presses, and the main screen shifts to the surveillance feed of a hospital room. It takes the computer a moment before the grainy quality of the film clears and zooms in towards the bed’s occupant. You don’t even bother to look at it any longer to see who the patient is, it’s clear what Batman’s trying to tell you.

“So the real question here is,” You put a hand on your chin. “Why ask me all this? What connects _this_?”

“Two nights ago, Green Arrow and Black Canary encountered an unidentified person in Star City. They were both attacked. Green Arrow was critically injured in the fight, falling from the fourth story of the abandoned building where the confrontation took place. He claims it was bad luck, but still managed to sustain two broken arms from the fall. Black Canary was able to subdue the perpetrator, and contacted both Green Lantern and myself.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, acutely aware that through your facemask the action is completely lost. Batman seems to catch the expression anyway.

“They weren’t human.” He clarifies. “Green Lantern was asked to search the Lanterns’ galactic database to find what species they’re from, but no Lantern had ever encountered this particular breed before. I was asked to research known and documented metahumans, which gave similar results. The most we could conclude was that their genetic structure was similar to a human’s, but not human in origin.”

“And just who was it that attacked them?”

If it weren’t Batman you were speaking with, you would think he hesitated. The black outline of his shoulders is a straight proper line, almost tense. Then he reaches forward and presses a single key, the screen changing now into a single massive image — one that had been taken from someone's cell phone, if the tall but not wide diameters of the image of the picture were anything to go by.

 

Well, that isn't. . .that’s not quite what you'd expected.

It’s a moment frozen in time. The young girl is caught in the act of lunging forward, her long fangs exposed in a snarl and her ashen gray face framed with a thick wild tangle of black hair. Eight pupils—the irises a near-black shade of blue and the sclera a dangerous yellow—are focused towards the camera. She looks no older than sixteen year old girl, at _best_.

“That’s just what I’m recruiting you to find out.”


	3. Question: Interrogate the Alien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her eyes scan you up and down, eyebrows drawn low over her features. “You’re with that freak in the kinky black suit that was here a couple days ago, right?” She asks.

Question ==> Interrogate the Alien

“And just who are _you_ supposed to be?” She spits when you enter. The chains—designed for the strongest of metahumans, for the likes of Manhunter and Wonder Woman, because it’s clear no one wants to take the chance—that connect her to the metallic tabletop give an unhappy clank. “Even without a face, you manage to be the ugliest thing I’ve seen all day.”

“It’s nighttime.” You point out. Pulling your chair from under the table and turning in around, you take a seat. Interrogators sitting in their chairs backward always seem to make criminals more cooperative. “Your cell has a window in it.”

The girl grumbles, her pointed jaws snapping at you. “Like it even _matters_ anymore.”

In person, she looks even less human. The mismatched horns most definitely hadn’t been caught in the picture’s frame, and neither had the yellow inch-long nails she keeps tapping onto the table. Her slate skin looks armoured and thick, more like leather than actual flesh, though it still manages to appear as if it’s stretched painfully tight across her sharp angular bones. Even across the gaunt surface of her exposed arms, she manages to look both near-starved and indestructible.

It makes you wonder just how she managed to put down Green Arrow.

Even with his lackluster reputation amongst most of the League members, you know from experience that Arrow has no problem holding his own in even the most extraordinary circumstances. Looking back, Black Canary had also looked pretty tousled in her own right at the Watchtower, and her abilities in hand-to-hand were almost unprecedented.

Batman had handed what little existed of a file before he sent you off the Belle Reve to see her. It mostly consisted of blank spaces, the only concrete information coerced from her yet was an admittance that she hadn’t originated from Earth and a few measurements from the medical staff here at the prison. You don’t even have a name to call her by.

“Let’s start with introductions.” You suggest, because it’s as good a place to start as any. “I’m the Question.”

Her eyes scan you up and down, eyebrows drawn low over her features. “You’re with that freak in the kinky black suit that was here a couple days ago, right?” She asks.

You hold in your snort of amusement but can’t quite keep the smile out of your voice. “I guess you could say that.”

“He must not have told you then, if you’re so stupid that you still bothered to come in here and act like you’re going to get anything out of me.” The girl slumps back into her seat and grabs the table’s edge with hunched shoulders, annoyed aggression in every movement. “I’m refusing to cooperate.”

The response is not exactly original, but you aren’t sure you’ve ever seen someone so sure of themselves so soon after a confrontation with Batman. Not someone so young, at least.

Still, if she thinks she can sulk her way out of this she is _sorely_ mistaken. You have experience in dealing with stubborn convicts—not to mention, stubborn _women_ —and Batman only said not to fatally injure her. That leaves open quite a well of possibilities, and you’re nothing if not flexible.

It’s obvious that she doesn’t quite expect it when you toss your chair to the side and grab her by the front of her camisole. While she weighs somewhat more that you had previously assumed, given the thinness of what could be seen of her bone structure, you still manage to heft her halfway across the interrogation table. You make sure to stop before the cuff’s chain can go completely taut, but is still far enough to where she should feel the metal bite into her wrists.

“ _Listen. To. Me._ ” You enunciate each word, teeth ground together for full effect. “You are _going_ to cooperate _,_ whether you _like it_ or _not_. _Now, let’s start with introductions._ ”

Her eyes search your featureless face for something you can’t quite place, all while her jaws move. It’s as if she isn’t entirely sure what to respond with. Finally, she narrows her eyes and gives a begrudging smile. The action makes you think you’ve somewhat impressed her. “The name’s Vriska Serket.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Vriska stumbles over her chair when you let her go, sending you a short glare as she straightens out her shirt and rakes a clawed hand through her hair. It’s the first time you’ve noticed the Scorpio symbol printed on the front, colored the exact same dark blue as her eyes, and she folds her arms over it before you have the chance to look at it any more in depth. The chains pull even tighter than you’d had them, which begs the question as to whether she even _feels_ then. Batman had said that her skin was too thick to be properly pierced with regular medical tools when the prison’s staff had attempted for a blood sample.

“Yeah, a pleasure.” She replies with a roll of her eyes. “Anything _else_ you want to know?”

You regard Vriska’s defensive posture and retrieve your chair from where it had landed near the wall, sitting down once again. She makes no moves to follow your example, but that doesn’t matter. “I may have a couple of questions.”

She sneers. “Oh har har. Name puns — so _totally_ original!”

“ _Vriska_.” Her attention snaps back to you at the tone, eyes narrowed again, and you continue. “We can do this two ways. Either you answer everything I ask you honestly and efficiently, and I look into having you released on good behavior, or you make this difficult for yourself.” Your voice goes low and dark. “It’s your choice, and let’s hope you make the _right_ one.”

Vriska raises her chin at you and you can see the signs of defiance in her entire being, from the downturn of her vampiric frown to the tight fists that make her hands look pale. She’s prideful. It’s on her face, in her spirit — whoever she is, Vriska Serket isn’t someone who backs down. Vriska would fight tooth and nail to come out on top, no matter the body count she left behind. To give up is to lose, and you know a sore loser when you see one.

Then, just like that, she gives up.

Her entire body deflates, as if she’s remembered something particularly upsetting, and falls bonelessly into her seat. Vriska keeps her arms crossed, but now the entire posture looks to be more childish than defensive.

“Fine,” She grumbles and blows a lock of hair out of her face. “Ask away.”

Oh? You blink in surprise. “That went faster than I’d expected.”

Vriska snaps her teeth at you again. “Oh shut up!” With a scowl, she sinks lower into her chair. The chains are to the point that they’re straining to reach her. “Like I said, it’s not like it even matters anymore. I’m here, aren’t I! I’m a _loser_!” Vriska’s chin slumps down to touch her chest and she glares at the floor. “Might as well act like one too.”

Hmm.

You aren't stupid enough to think that you've actually cracked her because it's clear she isn't scared, isn't threatened, but you can't find just what the angle is. Vriska didn't bother to play it out long enough to even _attempt_ to convince you she'd been beaten. Well. You'll play along, follow whatever game she thinks she's setting up. After all, it might lead to some interesting information for Batman later.

“Well.” You start, pulling the file Batman had given you from your trenchcoat pocket and clicking on a pen. “Then let’s begin.”

 

 

Her species, an extinct race known simply as the trolls; her home planet, destroyed and therefore supposedly unimportant; her age, 8 of an unidentified measurement; her blood type—which, you are told, is supposedly _incredibly_ important—cerulean.

Vriska isn’t the last of her kind, but she’s damn close to it. According to her, there’s only a total of nine trolls alive in existence, and their arrival on Earth had managed to separate them all across it. She couldn’t tell you how she’d gotten from wherever her original planet was to the western United States seaboard, apparently honor-bound to keep it a secret, but she could tell you that the rest of her group was undoubtedly planetside.

 _Somewhere_ , at least.

Her entire account still left you with more gaps in information than you were strictly comfortable with, but you decided it would suffice for now. You would wait until you’ve had a chance to further analyze the tapes of the interrogation and make some better notes before you drew any concrete conclusions about the entire affair.

You’ve already started yourself a notebook of each foreign term Vriska used in her answers, with either the translations she provided when asked or with what you assumed to be the most likely definition. Most of the words were English, made from a strange combination of verbs and nouns. Others seemed to simply be redefined words that she used however she saw fit. You kept as close a record for yourself as you could between asking questions and filling in the blanks of her file, and planned to revisit the notebook once you finished at Belle Reve.

While Vriska hadn’t been exactly _silent_ about her feelings when you’d had guards lead her back to her cell, the air of a childish temper tantrum had mostly faded since she admitted defeat. You almost had half a mind to be concerned about it, but as long as she cooperated with you then you couldn’t really care less how she felt about it.

The only thing left to do now was report back to Batman on your findings and send him the now updated profile on your extraterrestrial prisoner.

After that, you’d be free to go home to Hub and continue to track the situation on your own time with your own methods. Not to go against the World’s Greatest Detective, but you’ve found his way of going about things a little too restricting for your tastes.

You’re sure he’d feel the same about yours.

Batman picks up your transmission almost the minute it sends. He looks to be in a much worse state than the last time you’d seen him. If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve assumed that he hasn’t slept much in the two days since your little debrief at the Batcave. In fact, you’d go so far as to say he hasn’t slept _at all._ The pristine white coffee mug in his hands almost makes him look paler than the black of the Batsuit.

Hah. Of _course_ he takes his coffee black.

“Question, report.” He says with a distant tone, attention clearly divided.

“I’ve finished with Vriska, and I’m sending the full tapes of the interrogation as well as her now up-to-date file. There're several pages of notes attached that are just observations I made during my time with her, but it’s nothing too substantial. You can do whatever you want with them.”

Batman passes his mug between his hands a few times, before he sets it down completely. “Vriska.” He repeats, and leans forward to type something out. A moment passes before he speaks again. “It’s an extremely uncommon Hungarian surname, but also happens to be incredibly similar in structure and spelling to the Hindu word for ‘Scorpio’ and the Sanskrit word for ‘scorpion’. She’s still an alien.” Batman announces after some thought, more to himself than to you. “It’s likely nothing but a coincidence—”

“I doubt it. Her shirt had the Scorpio symbol printed on it.” You correct.

“Did it now.” It isn’t a question, so you don’t bother to answer him. “Was there anything else significant I should know?”

“I made sure to include it in the additional notes, but Vriska mentioned seven other trolls like her on Earth. She claims not to know where currently are, and refuses to tell just how they managed to slip past Watchtower defenses to land on Earth or how the group was separated.” You tell him. “I’m sure she’ll be willing to share more if she’s left in her cell long enough.”

Batman doesn’t immediately respond and, for a short moment, it crosses your mind just how much easier of a time you’d had dealing with the invader than he had.

You almost had the mind to ask her why that was, because you sorely doubted that Vriska’d found you more intimidating than _Batman_.

“Question,” He starts after a prolonged, almost comedically long swallow of coffee. “I’ve decided to officially put you in charge of this operation. By League policies, you’ll now be the undisputed head of research and recovery. Anyone with any new information on these troll characters along with any others associated will report to you. I’ll send out a reminder to all other members to contact you if they have information.”

There have been many times throughout your career you’re thankful for how your mask keeps you expressionless, but none as much as right now. You almost feel stupid for being so slack-jawed. “W-Wait, what?”

He looks at the now empty mug with a scowl. “You heard me.”

“I mean, yes, I did but. . .” You trail off, before you straighten your back and steel yourself. “Why pawn this off to me?” You demand.

“I’m busy here in Gotham.” Batman snaps, still glowering at his yet to be refilled cup. His face is a dangerous shade of white. “You’ve been officially authorized permission by myself to access any required League files and records, and to call for any League member assistance in your research. Except me, don’t contact me unless — actually, do _not_ contact me under _any_ circumstances. Unless the sky is raining hellfire and Darkseid is knocking on my front door, I. Do. Not. Care. Now dismissed.”

The line goes dead after that, and you sit back in your chair. “Well then.”

 

* * *

 

Your name is MARTHA KENT. Life is a simple affair in SMALLVILLE, with the occasional exception of alien invasion or evil megalomaniac’s scheme — mostly in part to your ADOPTED SON’S EXTRACURRICULARS. Clark is quite the popular lad! You're just proud your boy’s found himself so many FRIENDS!

It’s a pleasant Saturday, a nice clear sky with a soft breeze that keeps the air cool enough. It’s also your day to run the stand at the bi-weekly farmer’s market.

Your sweet little grandson(/son) Conner had offered to come along and help out with the stand and heavy lifting, but you’re a _grown woman_! He was told firmly to stay at the farm and help keep an eye on Jonathan—your husband does his best to manage the place on his own as much as he can, but he _is_ getting on up in the years, and farming hasn’t been kind to his back—while you were out.

Besides, you couldn’t quiet _gossip_ about Conner with him standing right there! It might as well just be the very best part of Saturdays!

Cynthia, one of the other women that live on the outskirts of Smallville on her family’s farm, shimmies behind your stand and takes the seat you’d set out for her in advance. She’s about ten or so years younger than you, but still well on her way past 50. Despite this, she likes to act as if she’s closer to _15_ , even with four children and two divorces under her belt. You think it’s one of your favorite things about her — the spice and excitement Cynthia brings to market days is a welcomed reprieve from Clark’s sort! Much less destructive, that’s true.

“Martha! You couldn’t have gotten here at a better time!” She says, wiping sweat off her forehead and coming back with a smear of makeup. “I’m _exhausted_.”

You pull off your wide-brim sunhat and fan it towards her a couple times. She gives you a grateful smile. “I’m sure you are, Cynthia.”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that! You’re late! I’ve been selling out our wheat stocks all darn morning! Raymond’s been such a strict _ninny_ about making me stay at our table these past couple weeks. He whines that I’m always wandering off and leaving him with all the work!” Cynthia shakes her head and bats a hand at you. “ _Anyway_ , you wouldn’t believe what happened last night!”

“I don’t think I quite want to know what you and Raymond get up to doing at night.” You send her a wry smile and Cynthia sputters.

“Not like that, Martha! _Goodness_!”

You raise an eyebrow, not quite able to stop your grin. “Then like what, Cynthia?”

Her face turns serious, with wide eyes aimed strictly towards the ground and a downturned mouth. Not an expression Cynthia tends to wear, _that’s_ for sure. Your smile falls away for a concerned frown.

“Someone was in our barn last night.”

You blink at her. “Who?”

“That’s just it!” Cynthia snaps at the ceiling of your booth, and throws her hands up. “I don’t know _who_ it was, I don’t even know _what_ it was! But I woke up last night to the barn’s door slamming—you know how the hinges get stuck all the darn time, they tend to shriek like a tomcat—and was too scared to go see what happened.” She pouts at you, wiping her forehead again. “But Raymond didn’t believe me.”

You keep fanning her. “Someone broke into your barn, and then what? Did they take anything or hurt the animals?”

“Nothing was touched, just some of the hay was piled up. I think they slept there, Martha!” She jolts like she’d only just realized this, then jumps out of her seat and hunches towards you. “A _stranger_ slept in my _barn_ last night! I could’ve been _killed_!”

“Cynthia, Cynthia! Calm down!”

“What if they’d touched my little granddaughter! She slept on our couch last night and, oh _god_ what if they did something? Martha, oh goodness god, Martha!”

“Get ahold of yourself, dear!” You stand and take her shoulders, giving her a few quick shakes to jostle her attention. Her breathing begins to slow, with more long intakes than the quick hyperventilations. “There’s no need to frighten yourself over what _could_ have happened, we need to focus on what _did_. Have you told anyone other than Raymond?”

It takes her a moment to control herself. The poor woman is so quick to fall into hysterics, sometimes you wonder just what she does without you.

“N-No, just him and yourself. I. . .I wasn’t sure if the authorities would believe me and I didn’t want to scare little Ella into thinking she wasn’t safe staying with us anymore. It's hard enough to get her to come around.” Cynthia finally says. “Do you. . . Do you think I should?”

You debate the question for a moment. “Did you feel safe last night?”

“Well. . .no.”

“Would you feel guilty if whomever it was goes on to hurt someone else and you hadn’t don't anything to stop it?”

Cynthia looks stricken. “Of course!”

“Then I think you know the answer to that.” You give her a smile and fan her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Martha Kent,  
> You are too sweet, too pure, for this world. Please be easier to write next time.  
> Love, Illmerica


	4. Reader: Read

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to Cutthroat in Carolina for writing literally all the contents of this chapter. Love ya girl. Also, from here on out everything but the Pesterlogs that's written in that font is written by her.  
> — Illmerica

The Daily Planet

** WARM WINTER WINDS HEAT UP THE ARCTIC ICE **

Written by Perd Hapley

This week meteorologists across the globe were stunned when weather satellites showed signs of a sudden and unprecedented change in the temperature of wind currents, most noticeably concentrated in the upper arctic. Seemingly without cause, almost the entirety of the Polar Cell has jumped to record-high numbers over the past week. Communities in the northernmost areas of Canada, Scandinavia, and Russia all report concerning heat waves, which have led to widespread flooding and mudslides through the areas. 

Renown meteorologist C.H.B. Buys Ballot has reassured the public that the climate's shift has a natural cause, rather than anything related to and or caused outside influence. He claims that although meteorologists are currently working their hardest to figure out the primary cause of the potentially dangerous shift, the most prominent hypothesis within the scientific community at this point is that a global warming  bubble of greenhouse gasses has popped over the Polar Cell and released a burst of heat into the region.

In response many theories have arisen, from villainous metahumans — the Weather Wizard from Keystone had come under fire in particular, although authorities have assured that he is currently being held under high-security observation in Keystone City's Iron Heights Penitentiary — to government experimentation, as well as one newly spotlighted cult's claims. The group, known by nothing more than the symbol of a blue and white globe at this point in time, has referenced in several letters sent to multiple new stations across the country a 'Wind God' is responsible for the temperature's fluctuation to keep warm for the cold weather. Authorities have taken steps to attempt to track the origin of these letter for possible involvement, but thus far little evidence has been shared by police.

This reporter can't help but to want to offer said Wind God a cozy sweater if it would save the polar bears, but no matter the cause of the changes it's obvious that something drastic is happening up North this week that could spell trouble for climates worldwide!

 

* * *

 

Central City Citizen

** THE GREAT BLACKOUT PUTS THE GEM CITIES IN THE STONE AGE **

Written by Iris Allen-West

In today’s busy, corporate world, having a working cell phone is vital. From the businessman making a conference call to the high school student coordinating plans with friends, phone communication makes the modern day 1st world city go round. Thus when a satellite malfunction this last week turned the region around Central and Keystone Cities into a massive blind spot for cell phone signal and data across all known mobile companies, it was understandable that the citizens of both cities collectively threw up their hands in frustration.

Companies ranging from at&t to verizon to virgin mobile and beyond have put out statements on the issues. One verizon representative had this to say: “What people must understand is that this level of interference is unprecedented. No hacker has ever accomplished such a feat before - it wasn’t considered possible, let alone a probable threat for this particular region. I mean, who would want to blackout Central City?”

Who would want to blackout Central City? That is the question on everyone's minds, along with “how” and “why”. Reports across both cities from individuals and businesses alike have shown that landlines are safe, whereas all wireless electronics have been cut off. Incredibly, this includes wireless internet for laptops too. “You could be right next to a wireless adapter, inches away, and it won’t connect. The device will claim it’s putting out signal but your computer won’t see it at all.” said one citizen. So far only desktops and landlines have worked, putting hundreds of businesses who rely on wireless technology in tight financial binds.

Blame for The Great Blackout, as it’s being called, is being spread far and wide. The cell phone companies were and still are an initial target, and online surveys show 73% of Central City business owners consider them at least partially to blame. The CCPD, however, suspect a different source. “It would be foolish of us not to consider this as a supervillain plot, either by a known criminal or a new unknown metahuman,” Police Chief blank said in an interview this morning. “This will be the route we will be looking into the hardest.”

It is perhaps of note to mention a third, rather extreme view of The Great Blackout, particularly due to the insistent letters sent by the  group to authorities. A radical religious group which wishes to remain unnamed has persisted that the blackout is due to, “a visit from beyond the void of a goddess who wishes to remain unknowable to the mortal world and thus has forcefully cut off all ability to spread knowledge of her presence”. Little evidence supports this claim, although the potential for this goddess to be metahuman being praised as a religious figure is possible to point where some officers believe this is exactly the case. “The letters have come in droves - handwritten letters! - and all have had the same basic message,” an anonymous officer told us in a private interview. “‘Don’t go looking for the unknowable’. ‘Those that are something cannot access those that are nothing’. ‘The slayer is a goddess beyond this universe’s laws’. They talk about this goddess like she’s unfathomable, which is a convenient trait to have attributed to you if you want to become a religious cult leader and cause chaos. How can you stop the unknowable? But the fact they even know it’s a woman and not a man or neither has me confident this ‘goddess’ is just a real person parading as holy.”


	5. Question: Babysit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Batman said you officially had complete jurisdiction over the extraterrestrials what he really meant was that you officially had _complete babysitting duty _over the extraterrestrials.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season's spookings! Happy (one day before) Halloween! I hope everyone's feeling properly spooked for the season.
> 
> As usual, apologies for any grammatical errors in this chapter. Like I said last time, using italics puts random spaces between the italicized word and anything around it, and despite my best efforts to comb through the chapter and fix everything, I'm only human. Also, as a head's up, there will be minor OCs in the story from here on out. Sorry if that bothers you.  
> — Illmerica

Question ==> Babysit

You stub your toe three times to Vriska’s cell, but you can’t even find it in yourself to care. She sits up when you slide the door open and sends you a grin.

“Well hello there.” Vriska says. “You’re looking cheery tonight.”

“Today.” You correct shortly, and wave one of the guards that accompanied you into the room. “Get up, we’re going somewhere.”

Vriska snorts. “Holy shit, it’s only been a fucking _week_! Are you sure you don’t want to slow down, buy me dinner first? This is going a little fast.” Her grin turns into a smirk, and you ask yourself why you’ve even bothered to get out of bed to drag yourself here again. Her oddly cheery demeanor isn’t any more helpful than her sullen attitude earlier this week had been.

“Uhm, sir? Med staff wants her there as soon as possible.” The guard still beside you hesitantly reminds, and glances away to cough into his hand before you can turn to glare at him.

Oh, how could you forget! It’s because when Batman said you officially had complete jurisdiction over the extraterrestrials what he really meant was that you officially had complete _babysitting duty_ over the extraterrestrials.

Vriska—now legally under your care by not only Batman’s word, but also prison policy (which was only integrated into the system by _Batman’s word_ , because of course it was)—has to be accompanied by you to any interaction with Belle Reve staff aside from the guards, and that includes not only to her psychological evaluations but to her medical check-ups and fitness tests alongside the other convicts. It’s supposed to assure that you’ll be present for any accidental slip of information until the investigation gets further as well as to keep track of any actions she might try to take against employees, while in reality all it does it waste your time and thin your patience.

So far, you haven’t learned anything except for how large her God Complex is.

You don’t think you would be so frustrated with the whole situation if the past four days—not a _week_ , because you doubt you’ll even survive an entire week at this rate—hadn’t been such utter shit. First your car was towed from outside the news station, then the circuit box for your entire apartment complex had been destroyed by some neighborhood teens as a prank. Huntress decided to let you stay with her until it was fixed, which might have been the only lucky break you’ve gotten, but then she immediately went off for some harebrained mission in Taiwan with Black Bat and some other members of the Birds of Prey.

If you believed in luck then you’re pretty sure you would be cursing your lack of it. You haven’t been in this sour a mood in a long time.

Vriska dusts off her ugly orange jumpsuit and lets the guard poke her out of the cell. “Med staff?” She asks, looking at you and raising an eyebrow. Her smile really gets on your nerves the longer you see it. “So today I get to see the medicullers? _Fun_.”

“Sure, whatever.” You start down the hallway. “Let’s just get this over with.”

You start down the hall, listening to their repetitive footsteps echo after you in the empty space of the corridor. For once, Vriska is blessedly silent. It only takes a couple minutes to reach the elevator and you swipe your temporary designated keycard to unlock it, then again after you select the medical floor. The ride is only ten seconds, but it feels like ten hours. Ten slow, very very obnoxious hours.

And that’s probably because Vriska decides to start talking again.

“So I just got my Phys. Ed records back last night right before lights out, and guess what? Basically a perfect score, just like I said I would have.” She says. “I mean, you losers are lucky you didn’t get the other assholes who made it off homeworld with me. Instead you got the _perfect_ troll specimen! Strong, fast, smart, _beautiful_ , all around just the best of the whole species.” Vriska flashes her fangs and looks at her reflection in the elevator’s mirror-like wall. “Survival of the fittest, and all that.”

“If you’re the best trolls have to offer, then finding the rest of your party might just end up being _too_ easy.” You tell her dryly, stepping past her and through the opening doors. “It only took a week to find and capture you, after all. Can’t say I’m impressed.”

You don’t have to look to imagine how she’s doing the expression where her teeth move into something that’s supposed to probably threaten you, but really just makes her look like a child. Eventually one of the guards must shove her forward because she stumbles into step with you after the dull thud of the butt of a gun hitting flesh.

A medical assistant is already standing outside of the main lab when you get there, a pen firmly between her teeth and eyes too unfocused firmly on her clipboard.

She doesn’t look up until you clear your throat, and even then it takes a moment for the woman to register just who you are and who you brought. Her mouth quirks into an uneasy smile when she sees Vriska, and her dark skin flushes to something paler.

“Oh, he-hello!” She stumbles to straighten her lab coat and hair, accidentally clicking her pen a couple times in the movement. “My name is Doctor Resendez, but p-please call me Rez! I-I, uh, I’m in charge of Ms. Serket’s check-up and medical assessment t-today.” Despite that, she can’t seem to keep her eyes on the alien for much longer than a few seconds at a time.

You stare at her; she has a doctorate but wants you to call her by a nickname, _okay_ sure. You'll humor her, why not. “New?”

Rez startles at that, almost like she hadn’t expected it to be completely and utterly _obvious_. “Well—”

“Don’t worry about me, Miss Mediculler, I wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Vriska’s jaw almost seems to click into place and morphs into what could have been a terrifying smile if you didn’t have a switch in your pocket that would activate her Belle Reve mandated disciplinary shock collar.

“She really wouldn’t.” You assure the woman when she tenses and takes a too obvious step backwards. “Otherwise she would be put into solitary confinement for the rest of the foreseeable future.”

Vriska sends a scowl. If you weren’t wearing your mask you think you would stick your tongue out at her.

Rez shakily nods a couple of times, clicking her pen again. “Well. . .let’s, l-let’s go ahead with the examination. Right this w-way, uhm, please.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before she turns her back to Vriska and unlocks the wide double doors to the medical center proper, then leads the both of you—as well as the two personal guards—inside.

For everything Belle Reve does wrong, it’s on-site hospital isn’t one of them. The prison has some of the most advanced medical technology in the world, all of it donated and maintained by Star Labs. Against its credit, a majority of the machines and procedures are experimental, to be tested on inmates before they’re actually distributed to the general population’s hospitals for use.

Is it illegal to test possibly unsafe medical practices on criminals against their will? Obviously. Then again, you suppose it doesn’t matter when a majority are mass-murderers.

Belle Reve’s medical bay has the same sterile white appearance that most hospitals have—a wide and tall room with areas that are really only distinct from one another by their uses, made to feel much less crowded than it really was by the vaulted ceilings and a second floor that overlooks the main chamber; it’s one that could have surprised you if you hadn’t seen better in the Watchtower’s medical center—but Vriska seems at least somewhat impressed.

Rez weaves her way through the small crowd of staff milling back and forth with surprising ease for how skittish she is, and doesn’t falter until the three of you reach a wall covered with multiple small examination rooms, each separated by white curtains. Once there Rez sends you several looks over her shoulder, almost frozen, like she isn't sure she's allowed to ask Vriska to sit down. Vriska seems to find it hilarious, at least.

“Cooperate, Vriska.” You say and cross your arms. “If you make this difficult on her, I'll make this difficult on you.”

Vriska grumbles and rolls her eyes but climbs up onto the table, her handcuffs magnetizing to the surface to keep her in place. Rez seems to kick into action after a moment. A three layer cart towards the opening of the curtain enclosure is wheeled closer to the table and Rez fiddles with some of the instruments on the top. You only recognize a handful at best.

“We’ll start with the basics to, uh, fill in your file, a-a-and then I'll get to some of the mh-more invasive procedures, okay Ms. Serket?”

Vriska shoots you a scowl. “Yeah, whatever.”

Her blood pressure comes out as 200 over 120, while her temperature is in the mid 60s. Rez is clearly concerned, and you guess you should be too, but—sadly—Vriska doesn't seem like she's about to collapse of health problems anytime soon. You decide to brush it off as alien anatomy and instruct her to keep going.

It's between getting her weight and height checked that Vriska decides to open her mouth again.

“So how often do you get aliens around here? Back on my planet, we were actually competent enough to never let them reach homeworld.”

Rez reaches between her horns to mark down her height, then writes it with them included. She's just shy of six feet, but you still have a few precious inches on her without the horns. Vriska's weight isn't even close to the human range for her height though, which makes Rez frown.

“M-Most patients here _are_ human.” She says while Vriska steps away from the wall and sits back on the table, cuffs remagnetized. “Or. . . They used to be. They aren't a-a-aliens, though.”

You give Vriska's shoulder a squeeze, the silent ' _knock it off_ ’ clear. Unsurprisingly, she completely ignores you and continues to talk.

“So, what? I'm one of the first aliens you've ever had?” Vriska scoffs. “What kind of backwater lame-ass Earth is this? I bet your people are losing their shit right now.”

“You aren't that special, Vriska.” You roll your eyes.

“Superma-man is an alien.” Rez tentatively says and busies herself with more tools from the cart to avoid eye contact. “Martian Manhunter too. We e-even have an ex-extraterestial working in this lab. A-And I think that you're classified right, right now too. Your capture hasn't been released to the p-public yet.”

You whip around to look at her and Rez flinches. “She isn't supposed to know that!” You hiss.

“I-I’m sorry! No one told me that!”

Vriska faces changes, but you can't place the expression. That's probably bad. “No one knows about me?”

Rez puts her hands over her mouth like she's scared the answer will still manage to slip out, and looks to you. You drag a hand down your face.

“Yes.” You sigh. “At the moment I've decided to keep you confidential until I know more. I wasn't going to share your capture with any of my colleagues until I felt like I had enough information on the situation. Only the people who apprehended you, the staff and prisoners here, and myself know about you.”

“Oh.” She says, distant. Vriska looks around the room, brows furrowed in thought. “Okay.”

The conversation drops after that, and Vriska keeps silent as Rez starts to take her samples. Skin, hair, and a scrape of her horn go as usual, then it comes to the liquids. Rez is open with her amazement at the blue shade of Vriska’s spit, but she's attempted to spit at you too many times for you to be surprised. Once that's done, she takes a long bright silver needle.

“Some o-of our techs made this specially, to-to reach your veins. Your skin was too thick f-for our regular needles, Ms. Serket.” Rez tells her, wiping down the point with a sanitary wipe. “This will pinch for a second, then you'll be fine—”

Suddenly, Rez trips.

She slams down on the edge of the examination table hard, with a loud _crack_ that echos across the room and the swallowed remains of her shriek. There's a moment where the room is still, before the curtain to the main room is thrown back open.

In the midst of turning to see who it is, you spot just a moment too late that Vriska is _smiling_.

“What happe—” He starts.

The doctor who had come goes limp within seconds, eyes rolling back into his head, and he crumples faster than Rez had. Your hand goes to your pocket for the switch to her shock collar before something brushes across your mind and all you can think is—

Go to sleep, asshole.

 

“Oh gosh, oh jeez!” Hands are on your shoulders, and all you feel are what seem to be small shocks of electricity through your arms. “Please please please, wake up!”

You shove the person away and try to blink the blurs and spots from your vision. It feels like someone's jumbled everything in your mind, making memories and thoughts too foggy to completely recall. A coffee sounds like a really good pick-me-up right about now, if Huntress was still in town you'd have her make some. No city makes coffee better than Gotham does.

“Mr. Question, Mr. Question! Sir!” The person barks, more than a little panicked. It takes more effort than it should to turn and look at them. “Did you even hear what I said?”

It's one of the aliens that work for Star Labs, the native from Braal if you aren't mistaken. That explains the small jolts you felt earlier when he was shaking you. His name keeps escaping you, but his name-tag says Joffrey Pikner so you decide to go with that.

You wish you could rub at your eyes to clear them out, damn mask always in the way of things. “Repeat it for me.”

Joffrey gives you a look you're sure would be exasperated if he didn't seem seconds from hyperventilation. “That girl, uh, Visha? Yeah, Visha! She escaped!”

Oh. Oh shit.

_Oh shit._

The entire situation slams back into your mind at once.

You bolt to your feet and he follows you. “She _what_? How? Those restrains were designed to hold Martian Manhunter, Pikner, how did she break out of them?” You demand and dig through your pocket for the switch to her collar. It's gone. Of _course_.

He cringes. “Look, I-I-I do not know! One minute we heard a scream from Rez and then Doctor Marisiddaiah fell over, and after that it is like the entire room just fell asleep!” Joffrey says. “Then there was this voice in my head, and she was telling me to come unlock her and to give her a set of keys and that button from your pocket and I—” He looks down, ashamed. “And I listened.”

You look around the curtain enclosure, and see both Rez and Doctor Marisiddaiah on the floor. There isn't any blood around Rez’s head where she's fallen, but she hit the table hard. An open wound isn't the worst that could happen. Still, you don't have time to stay here any longer, the more you wait the further Vriska will get.

“I need you to stay here and check everyone to make sure they're okay, and provide any care that's needed. Start with her.”

Joffrey nods, stepping towards Rez with a firm expression, his earlier panic entirely gone. Good. The best way to calm someone down in times of chaos is to give them a task to focus on, and Joffrey will definitely have his hands full. Panic is useless anyway.

“Alert any guards that may come here of what's happened, but whatever you do, don't let them sound the alarm.” You say, and make your way to the door. “She can't know anyone's after her yet. Right now she's cocky, and cocky means sloppy.”

“Wait.” Joffrey turns to you. “What are you going to do, Mr. Question?”

“Just stay here.”

You don't bother to try and look suave as you sprint through Belle Reve's corridors. It's easy to follow Vriska's path — she left a trail of sleeping guards behind her.

Vriska has apparently hidden her ability to both put people to sleep and influence them to do whatever she needs from not only the prison's neural scans, but from _you_. Really, you'd think she would have already tried for an escape with meta powers like that, especially at the beginning of her capture. Maybe there was some ulterior motive in staying, to collect information on Earth or on human's weaknesses.

You'll ask her when she's nice and cozy back in her cell.

Vriska’s warpath leads you to the elevator and you curse. She must have stolen one of the guard's key cards to function it, and with over twenty other levels both above and below ground at Belle Reve, it could take an hour or more to find which one she decided to take.

Think Question, think.

She can control minds, which might mean she could access information out of them too. If that was the case, then Vriska would likely take the floor that would lead her outside the fastest.

3rd floor it is then.

You're back to a full out run as soon as the elevator doors open, stepping over the four more men sprawled out across the hallway with their guns pointed in the direction of the door. It takes two more turns before the trail runs out and you ask yourself if this could have gone any worse.

The hallway opens up to the main chamber of Belle Reve, the Prisoner’s Hall. It takes up nearly ten floors, with a wide gaping space in the center of the room that makes it feel far emptier than it truly is. Over three-fourths of the inmates live in the cells that line the room's walls—the cells only accessible by walkways built around the perimeter of each floor—and at the moment most of them are cheering in what you assume to be support. They’re inaudible from inside the cells, the materials mostly soundproof, but the message is still clear enough.

Even from your low vantage point, you can see over two dozen security staff on each floor, and all have their weapons pointed up. Up? It's then that it occurs to you that Vriska isn't one the third floor walkway, that she isn't on any walkway, because otherwise the guard's would be doing something rather than just standing around with their weapons aimed. The security right beside you haven't even noticed you yet.

“We will give one last warning Serket, come down now it we’ll shoot.” The head of security says from the lowermost level, surrounded by a gaggle of her men in the middle of the room. Her voice is tinny through the megaphone. “Come. Down.”

You lean over the rail and look up.

Vriska laughs. “Yeah right! You couldn't hit me if you _tried_.” She mocks.

Somehow she's managed to acquire a pair of blue butterfly wings, as well as change her tacky orange jumpsuit into some tacky orange pajamas in the time it took you to get here. Of course.

The captain lowers her megaphone and turns to whisper something to the guard directly beside her, before she raises it to her mouth again. “You were given fair warnings.” She pauses, as if to give Vriska a final chance to concede, but after a moment clears her throat. “Men—”

You jump over the edge and land beside her, ankles creaking, then snatch the megaphone out of her hand. At least eleven guns are aimed towards you at once, but _hell_ , that hurt. Oxfords may look classy with a trenchcoat, but they definitely aren’t the best choice of shoes in terms of your night job. You’re going to have to ice that when you get home.

She blinks at you but otherwise doesn't seem to be surprised. The guards around her lower their weapons at a wave of her hand. “Question.” The captain says. “She yours?”

“Sadly.” You hold up the megaphone, glad no one can see your wince. “Vriska, stop being stupid and get down here.”

Vriska seemed to have been shocked at the sudden entrance, apparently not having expected you to wake up from whatever it was she’d done to you earlier, but shakes it off at your voice. “Go suck a featherbeast egg, asshole! I’m getting out of here one way or another!”

You shake your head. “No, actually, you aren’t.” You say, and, really, her snarls are even less effect from around 90ft away. “It doesn’t matter what you do, because either the prison guards are going to detain you the moment you come down to try and get through the door or the backup from the Justice League are going to once they get here. It’s pointless to keep this up, so just come down and make it easier on yourself. You’ve lost Vriska.”

The captain looks at you. “The Justice League are on their way?”

You pull the megaphone away from your mouth. “No.”

Vriska is silent for a moment, but her face turns blue enough in anger that you can see it all the way from the bottom floor. “Shut up, I’m—” Her shoulder jerk up and Vriska squeezes her eyes shut, lashing out at the air. “ _Fuck_! Whatever! I’m coming down, just shut up!”

Every gun in the room is still pointed up at her in her glittery descent—to the clear dissatisfaction of the criminals—but at the very least she’s listened to you. By the time Vriska’s reached you at the bottom level it looks like she wants to bite your head off. You know she won’t though, she’ll probably whine about you stopping her for the rest of your life instead.

It makes you wonder why she tried to escape in the first place, aside from the obvious, of course. Why not try it the moment she was captured?

“Restrain her.” The captain orders.

Two guards rush forward to follow the command, but you cut them off and reach her first. “I’ll do it.” You tell them.

One nods and silently steps back to stand with the rest of his colleagues, but the other makes a face and keeps his weapon aimed. He looks jumpy — you mentally record the designated number on his armored vest and tell yourself you’ll mention it to the head of security later when you have the time. Trigger fingers don’t mix with guns. You would know.

“I can’t believe this.” Vriska says to no one in particular. “My one chance, my _one fucking chance_ , and you just  _have_ to screw me over! I could have made it out, no one else would have even known! _God_ , I can only imagine what those assholes are going to say.”

You raise an eyebrow at her, pulling one of your spare sets of handcuffs from your pocket. They’re not specially designed for metahumans, but they’ll do until she’s in her cell again. “And just which asshole are we talking about now?”

“You wouldn’t know them.” She mutters while you click the first cuff.

“Ah, yes, the rest of your yet-to-be-confirmed alien entourage.” You say. “Nice diversion. Don’t think I didn’t notice you stole the control to your collar. I’m not stupid enough to let you keep that.”

Vriska grumbles and snaps her jaws at you, jerking her hands out of yours and reaching into her waistband. “Fine, fine! Take this—”

A bullet rips through her left eye and Vriska crashes to the ground.

 

* * *

 

Your name is  JANE CROCKER. Though you were once the sole heiress to a GLOBAL BAKING EMPIRE, you like to consider yourself having stepped out of Betty Crocker’s shadow ever since the MURDER OF ITS EVIL FISH QUEEN OVERLORD and consequential collapse. Instead you are now known by most as the NOBLE GODDESS OF PRESERVATION or, as you personally prefer to be called, the MAID OF LIFE. It’s been a difficult adjustment to all of your newfound responsibilities, but you like to think you’ve managed— 

There’s no time for this, there’s no time for silly _introductions_.

Dirt, thin and dusty to the point you want to scratch it away, clings to you like a second skin. The sun is already out, merciless as ever. Everything reeks of sweat and exhaustion, and you’ve only just woken up from your short rest—so painfully, horribly short that you feel as if you might as well have not even bothered—but none of it matters, because—

Someone is screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, right?


	6. Jane: Wake Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I hate it here.” Eridan grumbles, sullen like a rather put-out toddler.
> 
> “Yes, I believe you've made that very clear to every rock and lizard we've crossed paths with since we've woken up.”
> 
> “Fuck nature.” Eridan huffs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My school's marching season has officially ended (after we _killed it _, btw) and even with Winter Guard starting up this Tuesday, I should probably be able to post these a little earlier each weekend than midnight on Sunday. That's the hope, anywho.  
>  — Illmerica__

==> Wake Up

Someone is screaming.

Their screams are loud, and for a sharp horrifying second the sound sends your heart lurching in your chest because you _know_ that voice. It's loud, rattles back and forth between your ears like a cobra's tail. You  _know_ that voice — there's only one person with such a frantic, high-pitched shriek of terror, the only other person around for _miles_. 

Then your brain catches up with your heart and you're left somewhere closer to annoyed than terrified.

“Goodness gracious, Eridan! It's only a little beetle. The poor dear isn't going to hurt you, the only way for him to get around is to crawl.” You go to wipe the sweat off your forehead, but a glance at your dusty hands makes you reconsider. “I'm sure you'll survive.”

“W-Well the little bastard can go crawl on somethin' besides  _me_! Ain't like there isn't enough shit around here anyway!” Eridan shouts. He's on his feet, hobbling around on one leg while batting frantically at the bug that's halfway up his calf. Admittedly, it's a large one, but you still wish he hadn't been quite so melodramatic about it. “Aurgh, you fuckin' thing, offa me! _O_ _ff_!”

At the sight of his ridiculous near-dance, your annoyance begins to bleed away and you hide the smallest of smiles behind your hand. Eridan sees it anyway and shoots a betrayed look.

“Can't you just, _eeergh_ ,” He squirms when the beetle makes proper contact with his hand, and resorts to jerking his leg back and forth to dissuade it from going any higher while holding his hands high out of the dastardly creature's range. “Just make it leave? What fuckin' good is Life powers if you can't make a goddamn little bug—!” Eridan shrieks when it takes flight, fluttering off into the shrubbery beside him, and falls to the ground with a thud.

“There.” You say. “He's gone.”

Eridan gives you his sternest glare, but it comes across as more of a pout than anything you feel you should be even remotely concerned about. You shrug, watching your Prankster's Gambit rise and keeping your face straight.

“I'm not Tavros, Eridan dear. I never claimed flora and fauna were my exact forte.”

If his expression is anything to go by, he clearly doesn't believe a word you've said. Eridan's ability to look both poshly insulted and childishly pathetic has always been somewhat impressive, and you were practically raised in the executive boardroom of an international cooperation. Poshly pathetic and childishly insulted were the every day with those stiff collars.

“Sure, whatever.” He sulks.

“You're the one who decided to wake me up from my nap.” You remind, leaning back against the admittedly sparse tree you had used for shade during you much-needed afternoon nap and turning away from him, just to let him know that the conversation was over.

For an utter wasteland it's a pleasantly scenic place, although you would imagine your more outdoor-inclined friends would enjoy it more so, Jake and Aradia especially. Nevertheless, the sky is crystal clear and the sun is, though a bit of an overbearing presence for most of the daytime, reliably bright. It's something to keep optimistic about, at least. The barrenness of the overall area makes you glad that neither food nor water is a problem due to your powers; Eridan doesn't seem to completely agree with you on the latter, happy to go on and on with how dry his gills are at any given moment. Still, with the open and endless desert plains, it has a way of making you feel almost small and introspective, something nature hasn't managed in  _quite_ some time. You wouldn't say it would be your first choice, but Australia has a definite beauty about it if one looks hard enough.

“I hate it here.” Eridan grumbles, sullen like a rather put-out toddler.

“Yes, I believe you've made that very clear to every rock and lizard we've crossed paths with since we've woken up.”

“Fuck nature.” Eridan huffs. “We coulda landed anywhere, fuckin' _anywhere_! Why couldn't it've been some coastal city, or maybe a goddamn island?”

As if in response to his complaints, a prominent hiss crops up in the bushes just to his right, and you can't stop your snickers as he all but leaps out of his striped-pants. His cape, which has been pathetically tied around his waist for the majority of your trip, is whipped off and brandished like a weapon, though nothing follows after the animalistic hiss. Eridan twitches.

“Stop doin' that!”

You hold up your hands but he flashes his teeth like he would even dare to use them in the first place. “This _is_ an island, dear. Albeit, a large one, but still an island.” You continue, and he clicks his jaw tight at how you blatantly ignore his complaints. “There just isn't too much water this far from the coast. It's called the Outback for a reason.”

Eridan's snarl becomes a sneer. “Well fuck that too! All I'm askin' for is a little civilization, okay?” He grouches. “Do you even know how hard and this dry air is on my gills? At this rate, they're just goin' to start crackin'! I won't even be able to _breathe_ , Jane, fuckin' won't even breathe.”

You snort. “Hopefully that would mean you couldn't speak either.”

He almost looks hurt, the pout back. 

You sigh. You hadn't quite meant it _that_ harshly. “Eridan, you know I'm doing my best to keep the humidity higher for you, but I'd rather not risk causing any changes too drastic to the area. If I remember correctly, Australia's seasons are reversed from America's, meaning it's winter for the natives now. It's dangerous for me to tamper with the environment too much, especially for nothing more than your comfort.”

“This hardly seems like the type of weather worth keeping around. We're either freezin' our asses off each night or sweatin' them off in your planet's fuckin' demon sun each day.” Eridan argues. “Real grade-A preserverin' right there.”

You roll your eyes. “It's almost as good as your criticisms.” You reply.

Eridan, in a move that contains almost as much maturity as he himself does, turns up his nose at you and stomps in the opposite direction.

The both of you had found yourselves in the Australian Outback only a short week ago, and the most Eridan has truly offered to your partnership was griping and whining at most everything about the situation. The weather, the animals, the lack of many people nearby — it was too much, too little, or too in-between. Personally, you would argue that you've been granted an incredible advantage by Lady Luck herself (the figure of speech, obviously, not Vriska). It would be unlikely that anyone would think look for your duo so far from the water with Eridan's well-known attitude, or possibly even think to look in Australia at all! At the very least, it gives you far more time than anyone who had, so to say, spawned in an urbanized metropolis. 

With the weakest of splashes, Eridan sprawls out in the wide creek that you'd been following for the past couple of days. As implied by the name it's incredibly shallow, at maybe a foot deep at most, but Eridan floats on the surface easily enough. You watch him stare up at the sky for a few moments, before relaxing back against your tree. The bark isn't soft, and you debate willing it to be so, but decide against it. Soft bark is weak bark, and the poor thing is already struggling enough to survive with the poor soil quality.

You will the tree some energy and close your eyes, intent to enjoy at least the rest of the day.

Once the sun sets, it'll be back to walking along the water in hopes of finding the next available oasis and keeping yourselves warm in the cold desert night. You Maid of Life abilities can only offer so much before you're spent, after all, and you prefer to keep most of your available energy on making sure neither of you  _starve_. Top priorities and all that.

“We should just quit.” Eridan finally announces, maybe an hour or so later.

You haven't quite fallen asleep but you aren't entirely awake either, and blink sleepily at his words. “What was that?”

“C'mon, Jane!” He sits up and looks over to your spot, and his face is almost pleading with you. “We should just quit, save ourselves the misery of spending who-the-fuck-knows how long out here. I'm sure it's been long enough for someone else to have been found out, and I'm fuckin' _positive_ that wherever they are is better than this fuckin' hell! Let's just turn ourselves in and wait it out.”

You grit your teeth. Oh. Oh  _hell_ no.

With stark purpose, you lift yourself up off the ground and stalk over to the creek that holds the overgrown manchild you've spent hours upon hours babysitting, and summon your Skaian War Fork with a flourish. Eridan's eyes go wide with surprise, and he half-crawls half-stumbles out of the way when you stab the prongs into the ground beside him.

“The fuck!”

You lean in close, unperturbed by the amount of fucks he may give, perhaps because you've reached the point where you have ceased to give any at all.

“Eridan, dear,” You say with a tone calm as the eye of a hurricane, but it would take a fool to miss the fire in your eyes. “Let it be clear, if it weren't for my bleeding heart and willingness to have pity on your pathetic aquatic ass, you would be completely and entirely abandoned, as you have for what might be the last _century_. I have spent the entire week doing nothing short of altering the geographical makeup of an entire continent, and all for your wants and needs. So, please, do me a favor and shut the fuck up about the weather. You may be a unmotivated laze-about who couldn't care less about the endeavors of others, but I assure you that it's in your better interest to care for mine. _We will not lose_. At the very least, we won't simply give ourselves up, not when we all have stakes like these on the line. Do you understand?”

Eridan doesn't give a verbal response, but he manages a single jerk of a nod. You smile.

“Now that we're finished with that, let's go. You've ruined my nap anyway, and the sooner we reach the coast the sooner you'll have less to complain about.” You say. “We might even be able to find a way to North America from there! See about finding any of the others.”

Your spork disappears back into your strife specubis, and you start following the creek north as you have been. After a moment of hesitation, Eridan's footsteps follow after.

Personally, you feel that with a little shaping up Eridan is quite a valuable teammate. He has definite skills from his days FLARPING, skills like hunting and fishing and map-making that you yourself could have never learned in a Seattle suburb. In terms of strategists, Eridan is among the top tier — though not as conniving as Vriska and Terezi, he can have Roxy's subtly in dealings with people. You don't mean to be so hard on him, though, and your Father has always taught you that others didn't deserve to feel the wrath of your frustrations. For a moment it feels as if you should apologize.

You settle on adding a splash of cool humidity into the air instead, and behind you Eridan gives a quiet sigh of relief.

 

* * *

 

Your name is BILLY BATSON! Both of your parents were killed when you were little, so for most of your life you’ve LIVED BY YOURSELF ON THE STREETS, making any money you could as a newsboy. Lately though, everything’s been looking up! You were reunited with your TWIN SISTER MARY BATSON and taken in to live with your UNCLE DUDLEY — not to mention you became a REAL LIFE ACTUAL SUPERHERO, just like SUPERMAN! You were given your powers by a SWELL MAGICAL WIZARD NAMED SHAZAM. Ever since then you’ve been doing your best to help everyone in need, because truth be told, what else are superheroes for? 

You take another big bite of the ham sandwich Uncle Dudley made for you, doing your best to balance on the kitchen stool and jam your foot into your sneaker at the same time. The sock bunches up all around your toes, but you tie up the laces and gulp down a mouthful of your milk anyways.

Mary looks over her shoulder from where she’s drying dishes and snickers at you. “Got somewhere to be? You’re sure in a hurry.”

“Mhhmm!” You hum between another bite and sip. The ties on your left sneaker keep slipping out of the bow, so you give up and just knot them together. “I _gotta_ hurry, or I’mma be real late!”

“This fellow you met last week must be pretty great.” Mary says cheerily with a shake of her head. “You’re always in a big ol’ rush to meet up with him. Maybe try and bring him back home for dinner tonight, I’d love to meet him.” She grinned, throwing you an outrageous wink.

“ _Mary_!”

Your face flushes bright red, and Mary doubles over with the giggles at your expression. You ball up one of your spare napkins and toss it at her in embarrassment. Mary blindly bats at it and shrieks “Kidding, _kidding_!” through her laughter, ducking down behind the cabinets to avoid any more paper projectiles.

From the other room, Uncle Dudley calls out a polite reminder. “It’s already four Billy, I thought you told that boy you’d be at the park in ten minutes.” Then, “And Mary, leave him be.”

“ _Thank you_ —”

“Billy’ll bring him home whenever he feels ready. You can't rush these things.”

You put your hands over your face and groan. “I’m going now! Love you!” You yell, still red faced, and throw open the door. “See you both tonight!”

The door slams behind you, cutting off Mary’s mocking farewell of “Bye bye, Billy!”, and you pause at the top of the stairs to will away the burn in your cheeks. It's harder to do than it should be.

You take the steps two at a time, careful to keep a grip on the handrail so you don't fall.

Fine, if those two wanted to be jokesters about it, then let them! It wouldn't stop you from going, and it _definitely_ wouldn't make you spill the beans on just who your 'mystery friend' is. You may not be the best at keeping secrets to yourself, or particularly _like_ keeping them, but it was all for a good cause! _Really_!

Mary could drop as many silly little hints about a wedding as she wanted, because Billy Batson was a boy on a mission! . . .Or, uh, well. . . Just as long as Uncle Dudley didn't try to give any more talks about _appropriate touching_ , he was.

It takes three minutes less than usual to make it to Gaffney Park, and that was really only because you ran. You're still late, but you like to think it's the thought that counts.

By the time you reach the lake where he'd told you to find him, you’re out of breath. You stop beside a big ol’ oak tree, wiping the sweat off your forehead and peeking around the branches to try and spot him.

Oh, look at that. He isn't even here yet! Well gosh, and you thought _you’d_ been late!

You slide down the tree’s trunk and sit down on the grass, trying to ignore your initial disappointment — he’ll come like he promised, you know he will. It's a good chance to rest after such a long run, at least.

“Well look at that, stood up and ignored for a tree. You sure do know how to show a girl a good time, Batson. I always knew you thought her foliage was prettier than mine.”

Speak of the devil!

You jolt up off the ground, brushing the dirt off the back of your trousers, and smile at him. “Dave! I almost thought you hadn't come!” You hope he can't tell just _how_ relieved you are, but then again you've always been told you're a little too open with how you feel.

Dave’s mouth quirks in a way you’ve come think of as a smile. “And ditch my favorite dweeb on this side of the Mississippi? I can't believe you think so low of me.” He pauses for a blink, before he reaches out to ruffle your hair. “'Course I came.”

“Haha, hey! Knock it off!” You laugh, swatting his hand away and combing your hands through your hair to brush it back down. “I don't mess up _your_ hair!”

“That's because you can't reach it.” He snorts. You stick your tongue out in response — he didn’t _have_ to point out how short you are!

Besides, _Billy Batson_ might not be able to reach but _Captain Marvel_ definitely could. It was just. . .Dave didn't need to know that.

“So, any big plans for today? Or are we just going to feed some ducks again? I mean, don’t get me wrong shortstack, that was beyond awesome, but I need a little variety in my diet.” The raise of his eyebrow just _barely_ peeks over his swanky sunglasses, and you decide to take it as him being curious.

“If you want food, my sister told me about a really swell milkshake shop a couple streets over from here.”

Dave considers it. “Just how _swell_ we talkin’ here?”

You'd noticed it from the first time you spoke with him, but there was something about the slang you used that Dave always found _really_ funny. Maybe it just wasn't common vocabulary where he was from—because wherever that was, it definitely _wasn't_ Fawcett—or maybe he just found you funny in general, but at least you always had a surefire way to make him laugh. And so what if you maybe abuse it a little, it's just nice to see the way his nose wrinkles up when he wants to laugh. It's nice, just. . . _really_ nice.

You beam. “Super swell!”

“Well that settles it, milkshakes it is.”

The walk to the malt shop is nice, much more pleasant than your mad run to the park. Really, the only bad part about going places with Dave is just how much people always _stare_ at him.  

There are a lot of things you don't know about Dave, and there are even more that you just don't understand. His clothes tend to fall into both of those categories. Dave’s sunglasses are easy enough to overlook, but his bright red outfit and cape make you. . .wonder. It isn't that you're trying to be judgemental about it either! You're really not one to talk about being a little odd, especially given everything that's happened to you in the past year. The average preteen doesn't spend weekends fighting aliens or stopping meteors. It's just, well, a little _out of place_. Generally.

And, again, that's coming from the part-time superhero.

But maybe Dave is secretly a superhero himself. It would be a lot better than the alternative.

When you reach the store Dave holds open the door for you with an outrageous sweeping bow and follows you to one of the tables in the further corners of the shop, sliding into the booth that faces the room. You take the opposite side for yourself and wave over a smiley waitress.

Ordering goes without much problem, though Dave does ask you what a malt is because he's somehow never heard of them, you guess? They're pretty much a classic in every malt shop in Fawcett—they're even _nicknamed_ after the things—but maybe that's not true for other cities. It makes the waitress do a double take either way, finally noting his peculiar outfit, but she doesn't say anything. You remind yourself to give her an extra tip for it. Uncle Dudley always likes to give you some extra money for these little outings with Dave, so you might as well share it.

It isn't until she's come back with the shared order of fries that Dave completely turns his attention back to you. “So, I've been wondering. . .” He trails off, which, despite the short time you’ve known him, you feel is an un-Dave thing do it.  _Very_ un-Dave.

You try not to look as worried as you are, but when that doesn’t work you swirl a fry in some ketchup. “Yeah?”

“There’s this one guy — y’know, the Marvel dude I see in the papers all the time? That hunk in the red with the rippling muscles, charming smile, and the cape?” Your eyes go big at the mention, but Dave doesn't seem to notice. “He’s the big kahuna around here, right?”

“The what?”

Dave makes a motion with his hands you don't recognize, glancing around the restaurant a couple of times like he's looking for someone. “Y’know. The top dog, the big cheese, the main pimp.” He says, voice low.

When you don't respond, Dave groans in frustration, quite literally facepalming at your confusion. “C’mon bro, you gotta help me out here. The _big Daddy._ Ring any bells?”

“I-I don't. . . Maybe?”

Dave goes quiet for a minute, taking a couple sips of his coke and mulling over your response. You eat a few more fries to make yourself feel better, but you really aren't hungry and you really don't want them. The whole reason you'd agreed to order them in the first place was to make sure _Dave_ got something to eat—because you know how hard it can be to get something to eat when you live on the streets, and Dave’s already a pretty skinny guy—and he hasn't even given them a second glance. Still, it gives you a distraction and that's good enough for you to ignore your conscience about it.

“So he's the head honcho, puts all your bad guys in jail around here.” Dave finally states, not even bothering to phrase it like a question.

“Y-Yeah, I guess he i-is.” It's too hard to look at him when every word he says sends this awful feeling in your gut, so you watch the ice float in your water instead. “Why do you need to, u-uhm, need to know?”

You don’t actually want him to tell you, not _really_ , because knowing might mean that you would have to accept that Dave wants to break the law. Or maybe he's already has broken it! You don't want to hurt Dave, don't want to get him in any trouble, but if he's up to something then it's your duty to stop him. Or Captain Marvel's duty, at least.

Sometimes being a superhero was  _really hard_.

You'd hoped that you could be a good influence on Dave before he went down the wrong road, because you've _seen_ it before — the aloof coolkid that has no problem doing whatever it takes to get by. Even if whatever it takes means. . .bad things. _Really_ bad.

You _like_ Dave. He's a swell guy, for all his wacky clothes and his goofy humor. He's a good person!

It takes a minute, but you final swallow down enough air to force yourself to speak. “Dave?”

He reclines back in his seat and tips his head towards you, a silent response for you to keep going. It almost looks like he's scanning over the restaurant, a bright red bird perched over everyone else so he can spot every guilty twitch or suspicious fidget. Dave’s never hit you as an anxious person—he’s way too cool for that, in your humble opinion—so the fact that he's watching the entire room like a man-on-the-run makes you falter.

Really, you're not even sure he can see through his sunglasses indoors. They look neat, sure do bring out his soft pale complexion, but probably don't help his eyesight too much. Does Dave even need glasses? Like, the regular perscription sort. You can't imagine them on his face, not when the sunglasses have been such a preminate fixture since the two of you had met. It makes you wonder what colors his eyes might be. Maybe they're a soft brown, the kind that would round out his high cheek bones and chin, make him look softer. Or a they could be a crisp bright blue! That would look wonderful with how pale his hair is! Oh golly, it really makes you want to take those suckers off, just to see—

Suddenly, it occurs to you that you've been silent for a long while. Too long a while.

Arh! Focus Billy, focus! Don't just stare, that's werid! Gosh, Mary would be having a fit if she saw you, all cooing and gooing and sister-like. You'd never live this down.

You gulp down a breath and feel heat creep up your neck from his gaze. It's now or never. “Dave, are you. . .” You glance around the restaraunt, but no one seems to be paying the two of you any attention. You lean in just in case, whisper as quiet as you can go. “Are you planning to break to law?”

He freezes solid at that, staring at you from behind the dark glass with his possibly brown or possibly blue eyes, and you aren't sure just how to gauge that sort of reaction. You freeze with him for lack of anything else. After a moment or two of still no answer, a bead of nervous sweat drips down your temple and you wipe it away on your sleeve quick as can be.

Then Dave bursts out laughing.

Your face burns in embarassment as the rest of the diner looks over to your table of two. “This isn’t funny, Dave! It's serious!”

It takes him a moment to even swallow enough laughter down to answer. “Yeah, yeah, I just, _heheh_ , I know. You're serious, I gotcha.”

“ _Dave_!”

“Okay, okay!” He says and leans into his straw, bringing a hand up over his still quivering mouth. Dave takes in half his glass before he pulls back and finally fully looks at you, a small smile still stuck on his face. Despite the circumstances, you can't help but think how much you'd like him to smile like that more. “I'm serious Batson, one-hundred percent certified Serious Business right now.”

You give him your sternest glare, but you doubt it's as convincing without the superhuman strength and lightning powers that usually come with it. 

Dave braces his chin against his palm and leans across the table, little grin still in place. “Whatchya think I was doing, asking you who to avoid when I inevitably commit mass investment fraud and decapitate my own brother? C’mon now fambam, don’t be ridiculous, I’m not your basic shady ass punk, dealing coke on weekdays and crack on weekends. I've got more pride than those assholes, okay? Everyone knows marijuana is where it's at these days.” He jokes.

And just like that, your shoulders drop in relief, all of the building tension leaving your body in one big exhale. Your friend may have a dirty mouth, but he’s right, you know that he isn’t a bad person. _Dave isn’t a criminal._ The thought tastes better than your chocolate malt ever could.

You nod. “Yeah, you’re right, that is pretty ridiculous.” You agree, your own smile coming back easier now. “I mean, good gravy, I don’t know why I was so worried in the first place! You don’t even have any siblings!”

Dave places his hands on his heart, mock-offended. “My bro and two sisters take hella offense to that, Batson. They’re realer than the average Canadian girlfriend.”

You laugh. “What does that even mean?”

The rest of the hour is spent bickering back and forth with Dave over his obviously nonexistent siblings and whittling away at what remained of the fries, and it is  _wonderful_. By the time you leave to “go home and do chores”—in all honesty, you've been assigned a patrol over Metropolis with Supergirl for the next few hours, the League dividing responsibilities over the city while Superman is still offworld—you have completely freed yourself of any lingering thoughts about Dave ending up a troublemaker like you feared. He gives a casual salute and a wink while walking away, and tells you he'll see you again soon. 

Your chest still feels warm when you reach New Jersey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was Billy being sorta hella gay for Dave the plan? Hell nah. Did it happen anyway? Hell yeah.
> 
> I mean, sometimes it's like these stories just write themselves, y'know?


	7. Question: Destroy Private Property

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She isn't dead yet and, as long as that's true, they can bring her back. And as long as they can bring her back, you can get answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom. Friday update.  
> — Illmerica

Question ==> Destroy Private Property

You've never really liked Gotham.

Huntress says it takes getting used to, that the city has its charms if you know the right dark and molded crevices to look into. You think she's just sentimental about it. Born and raised, she's a Gothamite through and through. Huntress wouldn't know a good place to live if it socked her straight in the jaw, she's just stubborn like that. It's one of your favorite things about her.

Honestly, Hub City isn't much better, but you never said you weren't sentimental about it either.

It's just cold enough for the wind to seep through your coat and ruffle what parts of your hair aren't hidden by your hat. The Gotham PD isn't the tallest building around, but eight floors still isn't anything to sneeze at. Hopefully, you haven't picked up Arrow’s habit of slipping off rooftops.

“I thought I heard someone up here.”

An older man, the commissioner if the badge on his jacket is anything to go by, is standing by the rooftop access with a frown tucked below his thick mustache. You tip your hat.

“Didn't mean to trespass.”

The man’s mouth quirks. “I see.” He looks you over, careful up and down. “Well, I’m sure that's why you have that crowbar with you.”

That's when you catch how his hand is rested _just so_ against his belt, moments from pulling his standard police pistol from its holster. You can avoid the fire of the average police-grade weapon—you've done it before, tested and practiced and perfected—but you would rather it not come to that. This is nothing more than an informational meeting, and you're sure he finds people on his roof every other day.

Surely this can't be  _that_ unusual. Not for Gotham.

You hold your free hand up and visibly loosen your grip on the crowbar. He doesn’t move an inch, still in such a false pose of comfortable it makes you think this man’s blood pressure must be incredibly high. You can relate. “Fair enough.” You admit. “Maybe I'm being a little overdramatic here, but there's a situation going on in Belle Reve at the moment and Batman hasn't been very good at answering his calls. I just need to get his attention for a minute or two.”

He watches you for a breath, before his hands shift comfortably into the pockets of his jacket and he seems to relax. You relax too, just to show its mutual.

“Whatever you're planning to do, just make sure you clean up afterward. Wayne Industries is charitable, but they only funnel us so much cash each month.” Gordon—you catch it glinting on his name-tag and commit it to memory—pulls out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a drag.

“Will do.”

You wrench the crowbar underneath where the Bat symbol is attached to the light’s foggy glass surface and push down. It snaps out of its metal joints with a crack, and after a few more select jerks the whole insignia cutout topples to the ground. You pull a can of black spray paint out of your trenchcoat, giving it a shake.

“I'll wash this off later.” You tell Gordon.

You draw out a question mark and switch it on. Gordon taps at his wristwatch.

“I hate to rain on your parade, but Batman hasn't been around much these past few days.” Gordon intones from his position leaned against the roof access door. “Gotham has never been the easiest city to keep safe, but things have been getting even more chaotic than usual. I haven't seen Batman around for days, just the rest of his brood taking up any distress calls we put out.”

You've been living in Huntress's apartment for almost four days now, right on the outskirts of Gotham near the coast, but you haven't paid much attention to the news. Somehow, Vriska's managed to take in all your energy and attention for the past week, like an egotistical blackhole. Even now, after what happened to her, there’s always a small part of your mind that’s focused on everything that went wrong, everything you could have done _right_. Half-heartedly, you try to rack your brain for any snippets you might have managed to pick up while getting your coffee each morning, and come up unsurprisingly blank.

Well, it isn't as if Gotham's really any if your concern. It’s got a frankly ridiculous number of people looking out for it. You’re only here out of necessity, after all.

“I don't care who comes, as long as it's someone who can get a message across.”

Gordon shrugs and turns to look at the edge of the building. “Looks like you’re in luck.” He taps his watch again, and a stopwatch beeps from it. “Took you about half a minute longer than usual. Tired?” Gordon asks.

Nightwing steps out of the shadows, and you can't even find it in yourself to be surprised at the sudden materialization. Goddamn bats.

“You know me, G. Sleep is for the weak.” Nightwing grins and you aren't prepared for how honestly charming it is. He certainly lives up to Huntress's stories, at least.

The most you’ve ever interacted with Nightwing in person would be League assemblies, where you would occasionally catch him drifting around the room and talking with as many people as possible. You’ve never had a proper conversation before, and the most you know about him is from what Huntress’ has shared. He’s roguish and sweet, with too big a heart for the hero business, but he was raised on it. Nightwing is definitely nothing to sneeze at in the detective department—trained by the best, after all—but he’s mostly known as the glue that holds far too many people together, metahumans or aliens or otherwise. Just off the top of your head, there are dozens upon dozens you know that would come running if he asked, the Teen Titans or any previous Young Justice members especially.

You don’t trust people like that. Too much power, too much possibility of corruption.

Gordon chuckles and it sounds like rust. “Just don't wear yourself down too much.”

Nightwing turns to you and gives a smirk to tease, pointedly looking at the damage done to the acclaimed Bat Signal. “You realize I would have shown up even without all this? I’m always just a call away.” He winks and you clear your throat before he can do it again.

“Nightwing.” His playful expression snaps into that of a soldier’s at your serious tone of voice. It makes sense  — as far as you know, he’s been with the Dark Knight since before he reached double digits. It's efficient, at the very least. “There's a problem a Belle Reve.”

“With the alien?”

Gordon raises an eyebrow at that, but tosses his smoke on the rooftop after one final breath. He doesn't say anything, doesn't comment or offer any verbal surprise, just listens in. By Nightwing’s lack of concern with the location or his presence, you assume it's safe for him to hear what’s happened.

Hell, maybe he already knows about it. Few vigilantes have as close as a tight-knit relationship with some of their PD in their cities as Batman’s clan, even those who work with the police themselves.

“She was shot after she attempted a prison escape this morning, but we've managed to get her on life-support and, for the most part, stable. I just thought that Batman might like to know his newest pet project is going up in flames because of some rookie guard's trigger finger.” You say, and Nightwing gives a thoughtful nod. “I've only gotten sparse information from her about any others who've managed to land on Earth undetected, but if she doesn't pull through we'll need to make due with what I have. And considering what powers she’s displayed so far, not to mention what abilities she was probably still keeping quiet until she needed them, I’m positive the rest of her species are gonna be a pain in the ass to deal with.”

Nightwing doesn't immediately respond, still clearly thinking over what you've told him, but Gordon's mustache twitches and he stomps out his cigarette.

“It sounds like you've had an exciting day.” Gordon comments dryly.

“That's one way to put it.”

“Yeah.” Nightwing says. His face is set, lips thin and pressed together like he's made up his mind. “Look, I'm sure G’s given the brief version, but Batman's been a little in over his head these past couple days. That’s probably why there’s been so much radio silence on everyone else’s ends.”

“The great _Batman_ , in over his head?” You say, none too bitter. “How so?”

Nightwing and Gordon look at each other.

“There’s been, ah, _incidents_ earlier this week with some damn Joker copycat. It’s nothing new, people have been emulating the man for years now, but for whatever the reason this fake’s managed to turn the entire city on it’s head. The gang violence's spiked, especially with Red Hood's pack.” Gordon explains, voice gruff. “We have the real Joker on complete lockdown to make sure he doesn’t hear a peep about what’s happened, but knowing him it’s probably only a matter of time before he finds out anyway and escapes.” He says it like a tired sigh. “Both Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy have managed to drop off the grid before we could detain them again, so it's questionable whether he'll have help.”

“Fun.” You comment lightly, retrieving your crowbar and balancing it on your shoulder. “All in the job description, I'm sure.”

Gordon snorts. “Tell me about it.”

Nightwing still looks grim though, the minute frown having set even deeper than before, and you know that can’t be everything. Gotham is a madhouse on good days, but Batman’s never shouldered off his duties like this before. There’s something bigger going on, something more serious.

“I have to get back to Reve.” You lie. “Just make sure that one way or another, Batman knows about what’s happened. Have him contact me as soon as possible.”

Nightwing nods. “Can do. It might be a day or two, though. His current case is. . .” He pauses, searching for the right word. “It’s going to be the top priority for awhile, I guess is the best way to put it.”

You walk to the edge of the rooftop. “I’ll fix the light later.” You say, and jump.

 

* * *

 

 

The Gotham Gazette

** A NEW CLOWN IN TOWN **

Written by Vicki Vale

The Clown Prince of Crime has held his well-known status as Gotham's primary source of suffering for many years, recognized across the globe for his horrific appearance and crimes. That crown had gone entirely uncontested - until now. While the Joker is kept snug in his cell at Arkham, a new painted villain has hit the streets of City of Fools, and he may just be more crafty than the Joker himself!

Honk, as he's coming to be known as, made his debut just a little under week ago. The residents of Gotham's Chinatown woke up last Tuesday to discover that Vincefinkel Bridge, which connects the district to the mainland of New Jersey, was painted top to bottom with a colorful rainbow of graffiti. Hundreds of iterations of the word  “HONK” had been painted onto the steel bridge's surface, enough so that it covered the entire structure. Each word had the 'O' replaced with either a smiling or frowning face, though there really didn't seem to be any correlation between which was which. Perhaps the most disturbing thing about the event is that no one has reported spotting the perpetrator that night the crime had been committed, despite the bridge's frequent use during all hours of the day.

The very next night, Amusement Mile was struck. Almost all of the rides had been coated with the signature multi-colored paint job sometime between 10:00pm and 7:00am, the only hours that park is uninhabited. There were two exceptions, however. The horror attraction Joker's Funhouse was uniquely vandalized, with the entire building's front colored with a simple horizontal rainbow and only a singular “HONK” drawn on the door in black, now sans both the smiley and frowny. A singular soda stand was also burned down, lacking both in paint and “HONK”s. Most speculate the attack on Joker's Funhouse to be a direction challenge to the Joker, a way for Honk to stake his claim of terror in every Gothamite's tired overworked heart, while others simply question what he may have against soda. According to park employees, there was no sign of breaking or entering when they opened the next day, and all security footage seems to cut off around an hour after 10, presumably when Honk struck.

Honestly, is there any better way to directly challenge the clown we all know and fear than  _that_? Honk has been behind increasingly more destructive incidents every night this week, property damage done by the villainous clown - and how weird is it that for once I don’t mean the Joker? - rising steadily. Beyond Vincefinkel Bridge and Amusement Mile there has been destruction at local heavy metal and rock music stations, churches and cathedrals, malls, shipping centers and warehouses on the water, and even Gotham University! No one has managed to get a reliable video or photo of Honk, and though many claim to have seen the mysterious clown no one can give anything distinct about him in their description.

But what many, including myself, want to know is this: when will the other big floppy shoe drop? When will the business complex fires and colorful graffiti and smashed property turn into house fires and colorful threats and smashed bones? When will this new clown, this _Honk_ , finally do more than mock us all about our fears of demonic clowns?

Gotham knows it’s evil clowns pretty darn well. And while Honk may so far be a solo and seemingly invisible force of property damage with no known murders to his name, no one is saying he isn’t a threat to the public. Evil clowns aren’t to be trusted any day of the week, and if _Batman_  can’t seem to catch him - which our sources in the GCPD have confirmed, Batman has yet to give any useful leads on catching this particular criminal - then what hope do we have that he’ll be stopped before Honk becomes worse than the Joker?

 

* * *

 

Sitting beside Vriska Serket's bedside is a stranger experience than it should be; she's loud, unapologetically and unconditionally, and doesn't give a shit about you either way. A master at grating on people's nerves, to simplify Vriska by just calling her a ‘handful’ is _laughable_.

Now she’s just quiet.

You think you'd be feeling refreshed at the silence if it weren't for the reason.

Vriska’s skin had always been a consistent shade of gray, but now it looks like the lifeless flesh of a corpse. Her left eye has layers upon layers of wrappings around it and there are two IVs plugged into her thin arms up near the shoulder where her main veins are tucked, rather than the bend of the elbow. One feeds her liquids and proteins, while the other filters in the best artificial match to her blood the doctors could make on such short notice. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough.

You've been in her quarantine room ever since you got back from Gotham, seated with your feet propped up on the bedside table and ankles wrapped with ice-packs to soothe the full throbs of pain.

You should really learn to stop jumping off things.

The last three hours have been spent sifting through the last month’s worth of Gotham Chronicle and Gotham Gazette articles while Vriska wheezes on the fine line between life or death. A part of you feels irresponsible, paying so little attention to your charge, but you could really care less. She’ll either die or she won’t, and your constant vigilance won’t help her one bit when you hardly know anything beyond basic first aid medicine picked up from all the street fights you used to get involved in as a kid.

The lovely conversation with Nightwing and Commissioner Gordon still lingers on your mind.

You aren't stupid, and Nightwing is terrible at being subtle. Something's wrong with Batman and his brood, something his protective streak doesn't want anyone else to know about.

And, if there's anything you hate, it's being kept out of the loop.

Most of the stories are what you would expect: traffic accidents, economic forecasts, spotlights on local businesses. Pretty average. However, both papers seem to have segments saved specifically for information about the various kinds of criminal activity throughout the city and, by extension, the vigilantes. They range from standard grade gossip to actual recorded events, with a tendency to lean more towards the prior than the latter — as the media usually does.

Still, reading so many articles back to back lays out a nice timeline for you and gets your brain ticking with theories.

Around a month ago, Robin the Boy Wonder seemingly disappeared from Gotham. Most reporters showed a clear concern that he had died—again—but nothing has been confirmed or denied. Nightwing starts showing up more and more in Gotham to pick up the slack. Skip forward two weeks. Red Hood turns from placid to aggressive without any precedent as to why, stirring up old rivalries with Black Mask and his men while pestering any other gangs near his territory. Then someone nicknamed Honk shows up and vandalizes the city into a coulrophobia-oriented heart attack. It's all right around the time Green Arrow and Black Canary apprehended Vriska in Star City, or the Great Blackout occurs in Keystone, or the temperature shifts in the Arctic and Australian continent.

Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action.

This is much more than three times.

You look at Vriska, take in the breathing mask cupped over her face and the way that every minute or so her fingertips will twitch. She looks oddly pathetic, but also angry, like even when unconscious she can’t let her aggressive bravado fully relax. Her eye couldn't be saved but the bullet didn't reach the brain. It didn't touch anything that can't be lived without.

She isn't dead yet and, as long as that's true, they can bring her back. And as long as they can bring her back, you can get answers. Hopefully before anything too drastic happens.


	8. Question: Bargain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vriska Serket looks at you and grins. “Took you long enough, loser.”

Question ==> Bargain

You’re another hour or so into digging through Gotham news, now armed with a sketchpad—courtesy of the psychologists in the Belle Reve art rehabilitation department—to write out all your ideas as they come to you, when your cell phone starts to vibrate. You glance at the caller ID before you answer.

“Sweetheart, I’m in the middle of something right now.” You inform Huntress, sketching out a line to connect two of your information bubbles. “Is this important?”

Her scoff is much less condescending over the phone. “I’m your matesprit, asshole, anytime I want to talk to you it’s important.” Huntress says, over the loud background noise. You can’t place just what the sounds are, but you have enough years of experience to know she’s probably in the middle of a right at the moment. You smile to yourself.

“How’s Taiwan? It sounds busy over there.”

“Oh it is.” Huntress agrees, and distantly there’s a grunt of pain. “I just wanted to check in, see how Vriska was.”

She’s humming something light and airy, and you pause. The charcoal pencil clicks when you set it on the table but Huntress just keeps humming on. “Vriska?” You repeat.

“Yeah, Vriska, the cerulean blood you guys found? The one that kinky black suit told you about back at the Watchtower?” There’s another noise on the other end, not unlike an explosion. “I heard she was shot.” Huntress says, voice casual.

It takes a moment for you to notice you haven’t responded. “Yeah, earlier today she attempted a breakout during her med session. I think she’s been holding out on us, because she managed to put the whole lab to sleep before she left.” You tell her. “By the time I woke up and found her, she’d already been surrounded by the security teams, but one of the guards got ahead of himself when she finally listened to me and came down to turn herself in. For such a pathetic guard, his aim was spot on.”

“Don’t flatter yourself hon, she didn’t _listen_ to you.” Huntress scoffs. The noise behind her voice go silent, as if someone had pressed paused on the situation around her.

You blink, strain to listen. “What?”

“Vriska doesn’t listen to you, don’t bother lying to yourself like that Question, it’s pathetic.” Huntress says, her tone no longer even. “Everything you’ve wanted her to do so far has just been _convenient_ , okay? A lucky break! Don’t you _dare_ ever think you actually have some kind of _power_ over me, asshole! Like, give me a gogdamn break here, you can’t be _that stupid_!” Her voice rises with each sentence until it’s a shout, and you pull the phone back.

“Huntress?”

Holy _shit_ , how did those ghost idiots do this all the time? It’s 8oring as hell! I’m a8out to gorge my _other_ eye out.

You whip around and brace yourself for a surprise attack from behind, ready to throw the cell phone at the invader as a distraction, but stop when you catch just who it is that’s talking to you.

It’s Vriska.

Vriska Serket, alive and awake, and sat up in her bed. Two, completely undamaged eyes blink back at you.

You grit your teeth. “What the hell.”

That’s what I’m wondering. Vriska says, as if the two of you are talking about even _remotely similar_ topics.  After an eternity of this 8ullshit I would’ve thrown myself into Lord Fuckwit’s death lasers. I mean, _Condense_ , people are so retarded when they’re asleep.

Asleep. Okay.

So, you’re asleep again? This is happening in your dreams?

This might be what had happened to Doctor Pikner. You can't be sure though, you haven't had the chance to grill him for a better description of the event yet, but if it _is_ what happened to him and you were stupid enough to assume it couldn’t happen to _you_ —

You curse under your breath and you lungs decide to move in double time, air moving in and out at a pace only seconds from hyperventilation.

Almost fervently, you run through any encounters you’ve had with psychics in your headspace before and the do’s and don’ts of handling such a situation. The list is unsurprisingly short—white collar crime has always been your forte, not so much metahumans—but mixing that with the tips you’ve heard from Martian Manhunter gives you enough to set out a barebones list of rules to follow.

One, don’t let yourself forget that you’re inside your mind. Two, focus on physical sensations as much as possible to keep grounded. Three, remember that nothing that happens here is real, but anything can happen.

According to Manhunter, there’s nothing worse than getting lost inside your own thoughts.

If you go too deep, then you won’t come back out.

With that in mind, you pull out a pocket knife and stab it through your right hand and twist. It burns like little else you’ve ever felt before, but no blood comes out of it and the hole is a clean puncture through. The adrenaline coursing through your veins pulls the world into hyperfocus and you force your breathing back to a regular tempo.

And just _what_ are you doing?

Vriska doesn’t even sound concerned, and that in of itself almost makes you want to laugh. “I’m—I—” The words don’t quite form right so you pause to let your jaw stop chittering so harshly. It takes a moment. “Making sure you don’t somehow m- _man_ age to turn me into an unresponsive vegetable by— _arh_ —by the time whatever this is supposed to be f-finishes.” You hiss between your teeth.

Humans. Vriska rolls her eye. _Eyes_. Eyes, because now there’s two of them again.  Look, this’ll 8e done with a lot faster if you just do what I tell you to.

“And th-that is?” You manage to choke out.

I'm going to explain this as simply as possi8le for your teeny tiny 8rain, okay? When I wake you up from this little nap, I need you to turn off the ridiculous life-machines I’m hooked up to that are keeping me alive.

“You aren't, aren’t.” A pause, followed by a slow intake of air. “Can’t be serious.”

Of course I'm serious! Your stupid species’ impulse to stop people from dying all the _fucking_ time is making this a _lot_ harder for me than it should 8e!

“Vague and explaining nothing about the situation. Just typical.” You mutter and flex you palm a little. The pain has gone down enough that you start to move your fingers, remind them about the blade severing the nerves that connect them to the rest of your arm. It works, maybe too well. “I'm not known for my morals Vriska, but I, _argh_ , I still have them. There's no convenable reason that you would need to _die_.”

8lah 8lah 8lah. You're so soft! Vriska sneers. 8ack when I was your age I had already culled thousands of other trolls!

You stop.

That, that sentence. It contradicts something she’s said before, _contradicts everything she’s told you it’s all a lie and you fell for it like the fool you are_ , but you aren’t sure just what. The rest of the Vriska and the hospital bed and the room falls away to a gaping fog, and you dig, dig through every conversation, every action, every reaction, because she _must have been lying look at that you miserable wreck of a man look at it_ —

You don’t just twist, you _wrench_. The sharp edge slices all the way back to your wrist like the sinew of your hand doesn’t exist, but the rooms comes back into existence.

Your body goes to cry out, but you bite down on your tongue instead. You taste blood.

Whatever just happened can't happen again. Focus on the moment, focus on the conversation, and focus on the pain. You’ve always had a bad habit of chasing the rabbit down the hole — Manhunter said all humans do. If you chase it too far, who knows where you’ll end up.

“What's got you in, in—” Your voice breaks off, and you keep sawing up and down. “In such a hurry to die?”

Vriska watches you with her eyebrows raised and lips poised. It’s almost like she’s more curious about what you’re doing than anything, like she somehow doesn’t understand just what might happen. Anger starts to bubble up in your stomach, and you really wish you could do something to wipe off that cocky expression off her face.

8ecause I’ll revive, you idiot.

“Revive?” You croak, as skeptical as you can manage. This time when you speak, you focus on short pauses between the statements to keep yourself from wheezing out. “You're telling me that I'm supposed to believe you've managed to hide not just the ability to put people to sleep, to influence their thoughts and actions, and to sprout _pixie wings_ from me, but on top of all of that the power to magically revive after your lungs stop working? Is that what I'm supposed to believe?”

Well duh.

The al Ghul’s and their multitude of Lazarus Pits come to mind. You’ve never seen a resurrection occur in person, but even just speaking with Ra’s himself before is enough to show just how much damage it can cause on a person’s psyche. Even more benevolent examples of revivals like Resurrection Man have their moments. Death doesn’t like to let go that easily, especially not so many times.

“No.” You state, voice firm. “I can’t suspend my, my disbelief far enough to believe you. You can try to climb into my head all you want but I won’t kill you. Lives might be at stake, but yours isn’t going to be one of them.”

Vriska scowls and narrows her eyes, and suddenly the left is replaced by a gorged bloody hole, the gold butt of the bullet still gleaming underneath the blue gore. The knife makes a full 360° rotation before the image disappears. She doesn’t seem to care.

You still want answers, right? That’s what this is a8out? Vriska’s hands clench at the bedsheets, and her voice goes from irritated to like she’s talking with a child.  I have enough respect for you to admit that you aren’t the 8iggest idiot I’ve ever met. You _have_ to realize that I can’t tell you shit a8out anything while in a deathsleep. So let’s make a deal. You help me die, and when I revive I’ll answer any questions you have. No stalling, no dodging, no 8ullshit. Sound fair?

It does, it sounds fair and exactly what you need to be able to find the rest of the trolls that must have come with her, and that in of itself is the problem. If you went through with it and she had lied to you, then you just committed 2nd degree murder on camera to a criminal suspect under Justice League custody. If you didn’t then it could take months upon months for her to recover enough to speak, let alone be properly interrogated — and that’s _if_ she even pulls through.

Your only lead is sitting in a hospital bed right in front of you and asking you to kill her.

You continue to twirl the pocketknife and watch it for a moment, look at the clean lines in your hand and know just how impossible this is in the real world, outside of your mind. Even the pain isn’t enough to chase away the thought that you should accept the proposal.

Suddenly the entire world around you jolts and a headaches seems to split your skull in half. Vriska whips around.

Ugh, _great_! You're waking up!

You put a hand to your forehead and try not to groan. This is just ridiculous, you have a whole knife stabbed through your hand but a _headache_ is too much. You _hate_ headspace bullshit.

“So what does that mean, exactly?”

Once this dreambubble pops, I won't 8e a8le to pester you to kill me anymore. Not until I'm a8le to make a new one anyway, and that might be _days_. I may have naturally 8e the 8est at everything out of all of the loser I know, 8ut she only taught us how to make these for emergencies. It's a total pain! Especially if the recipient decides to make it difficult for me to make contact.

Vriska sends you a pointed look.

You'll just have to decide whether you want me to sit on my ass in a coma for the next five months a8solutely useless to you while the rest of my idiots go out and murder people for all you know, _or_ kill me now and return us to the merry little status quo of me in cuffs and at your oh so _clever_ mercy.

The room starts to shiver, something not unlike pressure building up. Your ears feel like they need to pop.

Vriska purses her lips. Just remem8er the deal.

And then everything breaks apart, and you're awake.

 

* * *

  

The Midway Religious Organizations and Activities Recorder (MROAR)

One of the world’s leading sources of accurate information on modern day religious activity

 

Home->Organizations->MordernDayMovements->SeekersOfAlpha

** Seekers of Alpha **

Founded: 2009, exact date unknown, estimated around April

Founder: Unknown

Current Leader: Unknown

Classification: Polytheistic Religion

Identifiable Symbol: 

 

This group, first identified several years ago by online comics visually depicting their views, tenants, and important theological stories, was founded and grown near solely through online content and communication methods. Only in the past year has physical gatherings of members been recorded, and those have occurred exclusively in San Diego, California. Their numbers are estimated to range between 400-1300. The group is not considered to be manipulative or dangerous, partially due to how little info has been collected on its members and practices, stemming from the anonymity of the online personas used by group members.

The Seekers of Alpha are, unlike most other modern day movements or cults, seemingly unconnected to Judeo-Christian mythology, Buddhist mythology, or Hindu mythology. Their central tenets are as follows:

  1. The multiverse theory, as proposed by Erwin Schrodinger and expanded upon by others in a multitude of differing fields, which argues that there are multiple universes in existence, that these universes are all different in specific ways, and that there are are infinite amount of them, is true.
  2. Certain universes are more valuable than others, in particular the Alpha universe, which is the primary model universe from which all others deviate from. The rest, including this one, are referred to as Beta universes.
  3. The gods and goddesses of all existence, whose powers created Alpha and thus by extension all Beta universes, live on Alpha.
  4. All who live on Alpha are directly blessed by the gods and goddesses to live an eternal life of luxury with them, for the main deviation between Alpha and all Betas is the existence of the mechanic of death.
  5. Alpha is accessible to those who live in Beta universes if a person living on a Beta universe draws their attention by praising all three pantheons: the Ancient, Eternal, and Noble gods and goddesses respectfully.



Although the full extent as to what gods are contained in each of the respective pantheons is uncertain, as highly similar figures with contrasting abilities and altered seemingly only by minute details have been depicted, all that can be certain is that the Ancient pantheon is the highest in total number and the Eternal and Noble pantheons are lower in number of members but more popular.

Below are the confirmed members of each pantheon:

  * Ancient:
    * ???
    * The Ancient God of Flora and Fauna
    * The Ancient God of Martyrdom and Futility
    * ???
    * ???
    * ???
    * ???
    * The Ancient Goddess of Fortune and Avarice
    * ???
    * The Ancient God of Doubt and Betrayal
    * The Ancient God of Innovation and Criticism
    * ???
  * Eternal:
    * The Eternal God of Freedom
    * The Eternal Goddess of Infinite Creation
    * The Eternal God of the Future
    * ???
  * Noble:
    * The Noble Goddess of Preservation
    * ???
    * ???
    * The Noble Goddess of the Unfathomable



*This list will be updated as new information on this group’s deities is discovered.

Update: It appears that this group has been highly active in the past 2 weeks in relation to large scale mysterious phenomena across the planet, particularly The Great Blackout in the Keystone-Central area of the U.S. and the polar cell warming in the northern regions of the planet. The Seekers of Alpha are claiming responsibility for their gods on these events. So far no valid evidence as to such a thing has come up, but no alternatives have been confirmed sources of these events either.

***MROAR is a privately funded research organization which strives to document the richly diverse and rapidly changing religious scene in North America in the 21st century.  All funds for research come from our generous benefactors at Wayne Industries. Contact us at 555-117-1939. Our headquarters is located in Midway City, Illinois.***

 

* * *

 

Question ==> Commit 2nd Degree Murder on Camera

There's a doctor in the room four seconds after she flatlines, bursting through the door with two nurses behind her.

“What hap—” She gasps. _“What are you doing?_ ”

The doctor’s aid all but tackles you, and wrenches the oxygen machine’s plug from your grip. The other grabs at your arms to pull them behind your back and restrain your movements. You don't fight him over it, relaxing your shoulders to lessen the strain. He's clearly been trained in holds, but not well. It's likely that your shoulder would dislocate if he tightened his grip anymore.

“Her heart’s stopped, get me the defibrillator.” The doctor commands, voice sharp.

While the female nurse rushes to follow her order, the other closes a pair of Belle Reve’s standard grade handcuffs over your wrists and manhandles you further from the bed. Realistically, you could pick them if you _really_ needed to, but you follow his lead and stand beside him at the door. The defibrillator starts to buzz with electricity as soon as the doctor starts it.

You watch her face as closely as you can with such a distance between you, ready to see the moment that she twitches or sputters back to life.

It doesn't happen.

“Clear!”

Vriska's body jerks in response to when the doctor lowers the paddles, but the heart monitor doesn’t change its beat.

“Clear!”

The doctor’s aid breathes out, nervous, as she fiddles with some of the machines still attached to Vriska. “Th-There’s no change.” She shakily reports.

The doctor gives a single nod. “Get me her stats. She’s an alien, so the anatomy of her heart is most likely different from ours, that's why this voltage isn't working. I need to know her BP and heart rate, _now_.” Her voice is confident and calm but there's a rush to her words that she can't quite hide, the same rush in the movements of the doctor’s aid as she ran across the room for Vriska’s clipboard.

It takes one to two minutes of complete heart failure before enough brain cells have died that a person is declared deceased. Your eyes flick over to the clock by the window.

It's been four.

“Come on, come on.” You murmur. “Open your goddamn eyes, come on.”

Still beside you, the male nurse sends a glare. “Shut your mouth.” He snaps. “Once the security personel gets here, you’ll be put into a cell of your own. After that, Waller will decide what to do with you.”

“I think we need to use a higher voltage. From the records of her pulse, that what we’re using now isn’t strong enough.”

The doctor changes some of the knobs on the defibrillator then picks it back. “Alright. Clear.”

You expect the same limp and lifeless spasms as before, the same lack of results, the same sinking sensation at just how gullible you had been. Then, once all attempts to resuscitate Vriska ended, you would be escorted out of the room, just as the nurse had said, and face Amanda Waller’s wrath for laying a hand on one of the prisoners under her care — Batman’s as well, whenever he found the time to care again. You understood this possibility, debated over the possible consequences and risks throughout two sleepless nights, but you never thought that it would happen.

Just moments before the paddles reach her, the entire room goes black. The doctor’s aid screams in the darkness and the heart monitor finally falls silent.

“What the hell is going on!” The nurse beside you shouts. He grabs your forearm and whips you around to face him, as if either of you could even see the other. Idiot. “What did you do!?”

“Calm down, the emergencies lights should be on in just a moment.” The doctor says, stiff, voice now loud without the sizzle of the defibrillator now dead in her hands.

As if on cue, the room is suddenly illuminated, and it isn’t the emergencies lights.

Vriska isn’t on the bed anymore, a foot above the cot and coated with a glow of rainbow lights. It drips off the tips of her fingers, the ends of her mane of hair, even from the loose fabric of her drab hospital gown. Most of the light seems to flow out from her left eye, bleeding down her body like a river of soft shimmering colors.

You might have been in awe at such a beautiful sight if you weren’t busy being swallowed by such overwhelming relief.

Both the doctor and her aide back away from the bed, the latter’s hands held out like she was ready to surrender, while the nurse beside you wheezes in shock. His hands release your arms and fall limp to his side, and he slumps against the door like he’s prepared to bolt out through it. Arms still drawn tight behind your back, you click open the handcuffs with the pick hidden in your coat’s sleeve. Even the clatter they make against the floor doesn’t manage to pull the his attention back to you.

After what feels like hours, the cool red of the hospital wing’s emergency light-system fills the room and casts Vriska’s lightshow into a harsh outline.

Vriska begins to lower back onto the bed, _carefully_ , as if the air itself decided to be gentle with her. Her head lays back against the row of pillows with a soft exhale, and both eyes—both _undamaged_ eyes—snap back open.

Vriska Serket looks at you and grins. “Took you long enough, loser.”

 

 

“So these are all eight of them?” You read back over everything she’s written, her sharp curved handwriting surprisingly easy to read. “The rest of your group?”

Vriska nods, arms crossed and chains pulled taut. “That’s them.” She confirms. “Trust me, I know way more about all of these worthless dorks than anyone would ever need to know. Be thankful I spared you most of the details.”

At the very least, Vriska kept to her half of the deal. She gave you all the basics someone would need to track someone down: names, general appearance, approximate height and weight, and the sort of places they would be drawn to geographically. In all honesty, the specifics of their respective appearances wasn’t so much something you needed—since they were trolls like her, then the skin and horns would be a dead give away no matter what ‘blood tint’ or horn shape any of them had—but the locations were definitely something you could work with.

The names weren’t what you had expected of aliens, especially considering how foreign Vriska’s own name seemed. Really, you were almost disappointed.

John Egbert, Jade Harley, Jake English, Jane Crocker, Dave Strider, Dirk Strider, Roxy Lalonde, Rose Lalonde.

You read them over a handful of times. All the first names are four letters, while the surnames don’t seem to follow the same rule. Half of the start with the letter ‘J’ while the rest begin with ‘R’ and ‘D’ respectively, though those share last names while all the ‘J’ names do not. You ponder whether only the ones with the same last names are related, or if any of them were related at all. There must be an explanation for it somewhere, but you suppose finding just what caused that particular connect can wait until you actually have some of them under your authority.

It makes you wonder just why Vriska’s name stands out so much from the rest of her species’ remainder. It would be naive to assume all planets work the way Earth do, but at the very least you’d expected a more obvious phonological similarities, such as the Kryptonian name scheme or the odd spellings of both Manhunter and his niece’s names.

They're all such basic suburban American names, you would've assumed they were fake if you hadn't known for a fact that Vriska didn't spend enough time on Earth before she was captured to make up such a lie.

Underneath their names, Vriska had scribbled out their symbols and the closest color approximation to their blood, both of which she assured you was _incredibly_ important.

Unlike you had expected, none of the rest of her entourage had Zodiac symbols. Instead most of them had other abstract shapes, like the two pale yellow wings paired with Jake’s name or the bright yellow sun with Rose. It seemed silly to think the rest of them might follow such an obvious theme with her, though for all you knew there might still be a common concept between the majority of them. Some could’ve been alchemy or other star signs you just weren’t familiar with.

“So,” Vriska leans forward, eyebrows arched high and lips pursed. “Who’re you going after first?”

You look back at her. “Why would I tell you that?”

She shrugs. “Who knows? It could be someone I don’t like, and then I might help you out a little more.” Vriska says easily, flicking her hair behind her shoulder.

You almost want to smile — it was like death had made her an open book.

“By the terms of our deal, you would be required to do all of that if I asked.” You point out. “And, personally, I find it far more likely that if I bothered to ask for your opinion then you would attempt to steer me away from whomever on this list you’re closest to.”

Vriska bares her teeth in a smile. “Am I that obvious?”

“Yes.”

Vriska hums in thought for a moment before her eyes are on you again. “Well, in that case, I'm just going to give my suggestion anyway. You can decide whether you want to listen to me or not.” She says with an all too pleased smirk, and taps a nail on the white swirl. “Of all of those worthless pieces of shit, Jade is the biggest danger to your precious planet. I won’t get to specific with you, but even I can admit she’s the most powerful of us all.”

That makes you pause. You remember how easily Vriska had put you to sleep, the cold feeling of her inserting herself into your dreams, into your very _mind_. A simple claim that you may have had some form of control over her had been enough to make her bring attention to her manipulations when she’d initially aimed to be subtle. You had known from the moment you met that Vriska wasn't one for praise unless it helped feed into her own overinflated ego.

If she could stoop low enough to compliment Jade, then you would be stupid not to take that into account.

Still. . . The Lanterns’ reports of a dangerous green being on Oa come to mind. A collective six League members had left Earth to go search for whatever it may be—five of the six Green Lanterns, _as well_ as Superman—which was a big number no matter what villain was currently being hunted. Not to mention, when they first discussed back at the Watchtower the founders had made it clear they believed Vriska was connected to whatever had happened with Oa. That wasn’t something to be disregarded either.

Your eyes roam over the paper again, checking the color of each sign. They settle underneath Jane.

You direct her attention towards it. “What about this one?”

Vriska snorts and rolls her eyes. “What, _Jane_? Gog, don't insult me! Aside from her nasty little temper and delicious little hobby, she's practically harmless. Her speciality is _healing people_. That's basically as lame as it gets!”

You watch her a moment to look for any signs that she's lying, but you know there isn't any point to it. It's obvious that she’s telling the truth, even if you can only tell by just how much of a dismissive bitch she is about it. That particular level of terribleness is something you've found solely belongs to Vriska when she gets to educate you on just how much she knows and how much you don't. It's a good tell, at least. You'll take what you can get.

Though that brought a different question to your attention. Was the invader on Oa unrelated? Just some _other_ galactic threat that just so happened to appear at the same time as the trolls?

You dismiss that train of thought immediately. No, there was no way it could be anything so simple. Once may be a coincidence, but there would always be room for suspicion, and you’ve already established that this has been far more than once. The attack of the Green Lantern’s Core was related, whether Vriska knew or cared to acknowledge it. There wasn't room to rely on pure coincidence when the planet, maybe even the _universe_ , was put at stake.

Besides, Vriska was apparently immortal. If this entire situation happened to blow up in everyone's faces in the form of absolute species’ extinction, then she wouldn't be the one facing the consequences.

She harrumphs, face twisted in annoyance from being ignored for so long. “So, what, is my cooperation _boring_ to you now? I thought this is what you wanted, Q.”

“Shut it.” You wave a hand at her, and Vriska sends a scowl.

There's so much more you need to ask. The key pieces of the puzzle are there, _right there_ , still just out of reach. It's almost as if now that Vriska's finally talking the entire picture has become even fuzzier than before, all the pieces you thought had fit together suddenly reshaped and thrown aside, back into the box until you can find the strength to make sense of them again.

There was more to the situation then meets the eye, that much was clear. Vriska was only the beginning, the so-called tip of the iceberg, and it would take more than her underhanded attempts and bargains to reach the center of the situation.

You need more. Another troll, another informant, _something_. Vriska just isn’t enough.

Your eyes wander back the eight names and symbols.

Them. You need one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a good chapter, don't you think? I do, because from here on out we've reached the point where I can close up the Vriska sideplot and focus on literally _anyone else_. Just look how far we've come.  
>  — Illmerica


	9. Jane: Become a Lowlife Criminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I just wanna say,” He grumbles as he pulls open the bag of salt and vinegar chips, popping one into his mouth. “That if you were anyone else, I woulda bit your hand _right_ off.”
> 
> You sip your coke, only to find some of the ice has melted and mixed with the soda. Darn. “I'm sure you would have, Eridan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh so, uh. . .yeah. Guess who isn't dead?
> 
> I wish that this chapter hadn't taken so much time, though I would like to congratulate myself on lasting so long with my update schedule. Eight chapters aren't anything to sneeze at! _Especially _not with a track record like mine. Also, before anyone asks, after this chapter everything should be right back on schedule, one update each week sometime between Friday and Monday.__
> 
> Over Thanksgiving break, my family and I moved a whopping _.8 miles _into a new house and, due to our cableman's inability to correctly read a calendar, we spent the entire week without any access to internet or data. I was really only to work on this chapter while at school which, in between some of my teachers' strict 'no phones' policies and the fact that I actually want to pass my classes, made getting any progress a lot harder than it should have been.__
> 
> So yeah. It's been a week.  
> — Illmerica

==> Become a Lowlife Criminal

Eridan sucks in a breath the moment he takes in the yard. “Holy shit, they’ve got a pool!”

You're somewhat occupied with the bright red dust that now coats the pants of your God Tier garb after the fall—even with Eridan's help over the annoyingly tall fence that surrounded the home, you'd still managed to take a nasty little tumble into the dirt—but at those words your head snaps up. “Eridan, wait—”

It's too late. There's a whoop and a splash and a sigh of relief; you fight the urge to facepalm.

It has been around a week since your  _talk_ with Eridan about his behavior, and in that time you had to admit his willingness to cooperate with your efforts increased over tenfold. The difference between the amount of ground you've been able to cover before and after was almost ridiculous. No longer was the barren rock-filled wild of the Outback the only sight — now small rural towns and cities could be found, all still miles and miles apart but present nonetheless. It was an appreciated sign of civilization to your partner, at the very least. Not to mention, it has also become somewhat easier to add enough moisture into the air for his benefit.

Though, as positive as the situation seemed to have turned, the presence of more people brought with it a new problem altogether. Namely, the fact that Eridan was a troll on a planet without them.

Even just the possible threat of discovery and capture has forced you to decided to commit what might be one of the pettiest crimes one could consider —  _laundry theft_.

“Eridan, dear, I understand that the water must feel nice, but we need to be in and out _as quickly as possible_.” You press emphasis towards the end of the sentence in the hopes that it will spur him to drag himself from the pool and help steal the stranger's clothes faster. Really, there couldn't possibly be a less opportune moment to get yourselves caught. You're sure no one would let either of you hear the end of it for decades.

The kiddie pool is small, so small that you're positive there must be young children in order for it to be of use to anyone, but it's clear Eridan doesn’t mind the size. With his violet blood, Eridan reaches somewhere above six feet, and it only makes his attempts to recline in the pool all the more cartoonish. His head is half-submerged, his back curled up across the bright yellow and blue bottom, and his long, long legs are hooked over the side to sprawl out on the wilted grass that surrounds the pool. It almost reminds you of the large dogs that like to think that they're the size of a chihuahua.

Eridan looks up at you pleadingly through the water. “Please, Janey? It's been fuckin' days since we stopped followin' the river! My gills are _dry_.” He begs, sending over his most pathetic pout when you start tapping your foot. “How about _you_ pick the disguise and I'll keep watch out here? I can make sure nobody sneaks up on us.” 

You put a hand on your hip. “And how will I know what fits your measurements?” You argue. “The entire reason we've decided to do this is so we can be sure you don't arouse any suspicion when we go into town, just as you'd wanted! If we stayed in the Outback,  _like I had suggested_ , then this wouldn't be an issue.” You tell him. “We'll need an outfit that will fit you and cover your body, neck, and horns.”

He frowns, waves a hand on the surface of the water and makes it splash. “Can't you just eyeball it or somefin?”

You drag a hand down your face, but nod. It's pointless to keep up an argument, and you do suppose he deserves a little time to relax. Without the river as a direct way to refresh himself, it's been harder for Eridan to keep hydrated. Your efforts have made a difference but even a Goddess can only do so much. “I suppose I'll be able to manage it myself. Just don’t blame me if what I select isn't up to your flamboyant fashion standards.”

“I _am_ pretty damn fabulous.” Eridan affirms with a self-satisfied nod.

A glass door and faded 80s print curtain—one you imagine Kanaya would rip to shreds if she ever caught sight of it—is all that separates the backyard from the insides of the home. You press a careful ear to the glass and listen inwards for anyone else who might still be inside at this time of day. It's silent.

The handle is quite predictably locked when you try to open the door, but you know better than to hope someone would be so foolish as to not lock their doors. Feeling around the doorway with your abilities, the young pleasant presence of a live potted tree that sits beside the door in joyful welcome. You call out to the little plant, channel it a burst of strength and ask it politely to unlock the door for you. It rather happily agrees, and you smile to yourself.

The lock gives a quiet click.

You tread with care as you step inside, mindful to go around the newly grown branch that had pushed open the lock. The tree radiates happiness when you thank it, and doesn't seem to mind when you rotate the pot so the new branch is no longer in the way of the entrance. Now inside, you take a moment to examine the house.

The dreadful faded curtains somehow manage to match the old yellow wallpaper of what appears to be a formal dining room. The table is chipped with three of the four haphazardly pushed-in chairs covered with similar scratches, while the fourth much newer and cleaner than the rest of the set. Pushed into the corner of the room is a plastic highchair, obtrusive with its bright child-friendly colors in contrast to the other neutral shades of the room. The distant voice of a radio show host jabbers on in a different room. 

A single painting of the ocean hanging on the wall reminds you of your purpose here. The clothes — right.

You take a deep breath to settle your nerves. Goddess or not, these are still crimes you've decided to commit. True illegal _crimes_ , ones that could land you into prison in regular circumstances. From even just the dining hall, it's clear that the family that lives here doesn't have much and to  _steal_ from them? It makes your inner moral compass feel so thrown off balance you aren't sure how long it'll take to righten itself again.

The sound of a creak deeper from within the house knocks you from your thoughts. You gasp and nearly make for the door, but then a small white-brown terrier patters into the room. Her large dark eyes peer up at you and she only stops once she's quite literally on your feet, then begins to growl lightly into your shins.

You let out the breath you hadn't realized you were holding and start laughing, reach down to pet the animal. “Goodness, you little scamp, you scared me!” You tell her with a grin. It takes a moment to convince her to move off your feet and she begins to whine rather than growl, and your smile becomes apologetic. “I bet that scratch feels good, huh? Well I'm sorry about leaving so soon, but I have some business to attend to. Would you be a dear and apologize to your owner for me? I have a dire need for any coats and dapper hats he may be able to spare.”

It takes somewhat longer than you had anticipated before you're outside once again. Outside, it looks as if Eridan has seldom moved. He's still reclined back as if he had plans to nap there — which you're sure that you would have most definitely suspected him of already doing if he hadn't lifted his cape away at the sound of the door behind you.

“What took you so long in there, Janey?” Eridan squints at the sunlight but manages eye contact. “Was the house a bust?”

You shake your head. “Actually,” You begin, and he narrows his eyes in suspicion at your just too cherry tone. “I happened to find _exactly_ what we needed.”

The feeling of your Prankster's Gambit rise makes you smile even wider.

Eridan blanches when he catches sight of your prizes and jumps out of the kiddie pool like the water turned to lava. “You're jokin'!” He exclaims, voice desperate. “You've _gotta_ be jokin' with me, Janey!”

Your grin may or may not become something far more similar to a devious smirk. “What? I thought you had wanted me to find you something fabulous, Eridan!” You say with innocence, the urge to giggle causing your sides to twitch. “Is this not up to your standards?”

“There's no way you can make me—”

 

“—wear this!” He whines, quite loud. “It's the ugliest goddamn outfit I've ever seen, and, _fuck_ , half of the people we know have the fashion taste of a cholerbear!”

You stop yourself from reminding him that you warned him the disguise may not be up to his fashion tastes and bask in your good mood. Eridan's spent a large portion of the trip through the town of Cobar grumbling and whining about his misfortunes, but it's hardly having any effect on you. This whole situation was simply too comical.

The town itself is very cute, with decorative lampposts and small family-owned shops that line the main streets. Most of the housing for the scant 4,000 occupants are above the stores. It gives the entire town such a perfect fictional appearance that you could have convinced yourself that it was nothing more than a mirage if you hadn't known your powers would never allow for such a thing to happen.

Nevertheless, Cobar was still a far cry from Sydney, which has become the official end goal of your little adventure. If the map from the last gas station you passed is to be believed, then within maybe another week your team of two will finally be able to enjoy the salt-filled coastal air of the Pacific.

Neither of you have allowed yourself to dwell much over what will happen  _after_ you reached Sydney—be it to stay in Australia or begin to make the trip to America—so the problem is quietly being saved for a later date. For now, the true concern is to simply reach the city, for both Eridan and Australia's sake. After all, you aren't  Tavros, you have little to no idea what all your meddling has managed to do to the native flora and fauna but you have enough common sense to assume it isn't ideal.

Eridan shoots you a side glare. “I hate you and I hate everythin’ you stand for.”

“Come now, I think this outfit suits you!” You tell him. It's too much to hold back your gaped grin and Eridan jabs a finger towards you when he sees it.

“You did this on porpoise!” He accuses with an overdramatic throw of his hands. “You were so bitter about me stayin' in that pool that you went outta your way to find the most disgustin' piece of fabric on the planet! Hell, I bet you altered the damn thing yourself! Don't think I'm not seein' your smile, Janey, you're _laughin_ _'_ at me!”

You immediately bring a hand up to cover your mouth. “I did nothing of the sort! Besides, I don't know how to _sew_ , that's more of Kanaya's hobby.” Despite your attempts to keep your voice level, you still end off with a spatter of giggles.

You did not, in fact, alter Eridan's stolen trench coat and hat. In all honesty, it was lucky you found them at all! It'd been complete chance for you to stumble across a peculiar cardboard box in one of the spare closet, labeled as  _College Clothes - Give Away_. You had only decided to open it on a whim, and inside was possibly the best disguise that you could have hoped for — a slew of heavy metal clothes and paraphernalia.

Both the coat and hat were made from thick black leather, far too heavy for the oppressive Australian sun. The trench coat was covered with short silver spikes around the cuffs and collar, the latter popped up in order to better hide his gills, and loops of silver chains, skulls, and crosses that covered the front lapels. The cowboy hat matched its partner in number of spikes around the band, the high crown of the hat perfect for hiding his horns from view.

Eridan took it all in as much stride as he could manage, walking throughout the town with the resignation of a death row inmate.

Personally, you find the entire situation to be quite hilarious.

Eridan sighs sorrowfully. “I miss my cape.”

You hug the folded-up purple material closer to your chest. It’s as soft as a blanket and, though you would never admit it, you can understand why he’s so attached. “You can have your cape back when we no longer need to hide your species.” You chide.

A sign catches your eye when you pass the storefront, and as if on cue your stomach rumbles. On an impulse, you grab Eridan’s arm and start to pull him inside.

“Janey—?”

“Come along dear, we need to eat.” It's impossible to keep the outright _excitment_ from your voice, no matter how much you attempt to sound authoritative. 

The sandwich shop is almost empty, with a small handful of patrons taking up tables. While you stride to the counter with an eager zest, Eridan trails behind and burrows further into his collar in an attempt to blend in further. He fails miserably, but the young man behind the counter only stares at Eridan until you clear your throat to catch his attention, so you decide to take it as a positive sign.

“I would like two large sandwiches please.” You say, as perfectly polite as you can manage.

It's been three weeks since you've eaten food and while your powers are designed to deal with problems such as these, there's nothing that can truly replace the feeling of a warm meal in your stomach. You're giddy with anticipation.

The counter boy points a thumb back at the menu hanging up on the wall. “Sure thing, but, uh, what type? We only have specific combinations, none of that ‘build your own’ kind of stuff.”

“That’s quite alright, dear! Now let’s see.” You wave away his words and start to scan the menu.

Eridan bends down next to your ear, hissing frantically. “Just _what_ do you think you’re _doin_ ’?”

You roll your eyes but smile. “Ordering us lunch.”

Eridan’s eyes widen and he grabs your shoulder. “ _W_ _hat_? I thought you could keep us healthy the entire time we were here, that food and water wouldn't be a problem! Is there somethin’ wrong with your powers?” His voice somehow manages to turn more panicked at the very thought. “We—We don’t have _money_! How're we supposed to—”

“Oh, that reminds me! Two large fountain drinks as well.” You interrupt. The boy behind the counter slowly nods, eyes moving between you and Eridan like he isn't sure which to look at, and then goes to the machine to make them.

Eridan gives your shoulder a vengeful shake and whines. “Janey, don’t ignore me!”

“Eridan, keep your voice down! We are in _public_.” You say. Admittedly, you yourself aren't the most subtle character in the deli either, but at least you haven't decided to broadcast your problems for the entire business to hear. “My abilities are just fine, I simply wanted to treat us to a nice meal. After such a long time in the Outback, I thought a celebration was in order. Also, I found a few bills in the pockets of that coat of your's that we can use to pay.”

He blinks in surprise. “Oh.” Eridan mutters. “Sorry.”

You grin, almost smirk. “As you should be!”

“Here’re your drinks ma’am.” The employee speaks up. He carefully slides what appears to be two large cokes across the counter, all while trying to look everywhere but your faces and failing. It makes the room feel suddenly tense, for all parties. “Do you know your order?” He asks the cash register.

Well that's. . .not so good a sign, but you ignore it for now. “Yes, um.” You glance down at his nametag for a quick moment. “Thank you, Greg. I’ll have french dip with corn chips, please.”

It takes two attempts to nudge Eridan before he dares to speak up, and even then he's stuttery and awkward.

“An Under the Sea sandwich would be, uhm. That's fine. And with salt and vinegar chips.”

“Manners.” You elbow him again and Eridan flinches in surprise so hard that his hat shifts up from his face.

There's a sharp intake of air and you freeze, swivel back to the counter to look at Greg —  _Greg_ , who must be noticing Eridan's freckled gray skin and yellow-to-purple eyes and sharp fangs, who must be realizing that his freckled gray skin and yellow-to-purple eyes and sharp fangs are  _real_.

Greg gapes. “You’re a—”

You throw up your hands as if to physically stop his train of thought. “It’s not what you think!”

“—metahuman.” He finishes in awe.

You both stop short.

Eridan opens his mouth to reply but you jump into action before he can, and throw a hand over his mouth. He lightly jabs some of his duller teeth into your palm to scare you into moving it, sends a vile glare, but you pinch his side below the counter and he stops.

In the beat of silence that follows, you take a moment to evaluate Greg's expression. He doesn't seem angry or scared, which is good. If he had assumed Eridan's supposed status as a 'metahuman' to be dangerous, you're sure that he would have simply called the police rather than ask him about it. Rather, Greg almost looks like a child who's just been informed that his favorite imaginary friend was, in fact, real.

. . .Okay. . . This could work. You have absolutely no idea what on God's Green Earth a metahuman is, but fuck it.

You make a show of looking side to side before you lean closer. Greg eagerly follows your lead and leans in too. “Yes, he is.” You respond with a weary whisper. Eridan bursts into angry muffled protests behind you hand, so you clamp down harder on his mouth with the other hand as well. “As you can see, he's quite sensitive about the topic.”

“Fuck dude, you're legit scary!” Greg enthuses, far too loud for your comfort. He catches Eridan's expression a moment later, and rushes to backtrack. “I mean, shit, I meant you look awesome! Just, like, super cool. Like that Bizzaro dude, he's got gray skin just like you do! Well, uh, he's evil but. Um. There's, there's that girl, Jinx? Although, shit, she's definitely a superhuman but not a superhero either. _Shit_ , er, shoot. I’m sorry, um, I’ll just stop talking and. . . Yeah.”

The term superhuman is quite self-explanatory, so you decide to take a shot in the dark and assume it to be the same as a metahuman. “Yes, my friend here is one of those — those superhumans. But people tend to freak out when they see, well, _him_ , so he has to hide behind heavy clothes or be branded as someone who may do terrible things, like those others.”

You give the saddest smile you can muster, and watch in relief as Greg's face fills with complete sympathy. Eridan makes another grumble behind your hands.

Thankfully, Greg doesn’t catch it. He pulls back and frowns. “Dude, that sucks ass.”

“Yes, it most definitely does.” You agree with a mournful nod. At this point, you swear that you can  _feel_ Eridan's ire. “So if you could perhaps be so kind as to make our food for us and not tell a soul, we would greatly appreciate it. We’re just passing through town, but we’d rather not cause a fuss. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course!” Greg says immediately, eyes wide and voice almost a shout. He points around the register and display case of cookies. “Go to the booth in the far right corner, the walls blocks you off from most of the rest of the place. I’ll have your sandwiches ready ASAP, no problemo.”

“Thank you, dear!” You respond, actually sincere, and then all but shove the drinks in Eridan’s hands. He follows to the booth with more than a few choice words that you elect to disregard.

True to his word, Greg delivers the food to your booth in minutes, setting each in front of you with more care than you would expect from the average teenager. He announces that it's on the house and winks when he leaves back for the counter; Eridan flips him off.

“I just wanna say,” He grumbles as he pulls open the bag of salt and vinegar chips, popping one into his mouth. “That if you were anyone else, I woulda bit your hand _right_ off.”

You sip your coke, only to find some of the ice has melted and mixed with the soda. Darn. “I'm sure you would have, Eridan.”

Eridan glares— _pouts_ —through three more chips and a huge bite of his sandwich. “I'm a fuckin' highblood, Janey, and you're actin' like I'm another squishy human like you are. We're straight up crazy!” He warns with what's meant to be a fear-inducing wiggle of his fingers, but feels far more giggle-inducing than anything. You raise an eyebrow. “Straight. Up. _Crazy_.”  

You decide to let him keep his pride for another day, and begin to devour your sandwich rather than comment. Eridan smirks like he's won and does the same.

Greg waves and winks again when you exit the deli. Eridan purses his lips and ignores the teenager, hiking up his collar and stepping through the doorway without hesitation from the light rain showers that started while the both of you were at lunch.

You wave back.

 

* * *

 

Billy ==> Die of Embarrassment

You are pretty sure Mary will be the death of you, and you are also pretty sure that when Mr. Batman investigates your body he’ll find the cause of death to be _embarrassment_.

“I'm glad you're finally ready to invite your boyfriend over for dinner.” Mary says. Her smile is an unfair blend of adorable and mischievous while she snuggles deep into the couch, all curled up with the nicest blanket in the apartment. It’s the soft white one with a couple drops of ketchup accidentally stained into the bottom corner, and it feels like a cloud. Mary managed to be sneaky enough to grab it before you could, but you debate stealing it if she gets up. It’s the rules, after all. “I've been wanting to meet this mystery boy forever, see what all the fuss is about. I bet he’s _super_ handsome.”

Your cheeks puff out. “Dave isn't my boyfriend, Mary!”

She throws her head back and laughs, dodges the cute little decorative couch pillow you toss across the room at her. “Well that's not what I heard! The other kids in the neighbourhood have been talking about you and that coolkid all week! Feeding ducks together, sharing milkshakes, going on _romantic boat rides_. You two are big news, the talk of the town!”

Your face flushes hot. “We wanted the same flavor, so it made sense to just share one!” You argue. “And that boat ride wasn't romantic, it was scenic! I just wanted to show him more of Fawcett and the park has a good view of most of the city.”

“And the ducks?”

You point a finger at her. “Like you don't feed the ducks either!”

“Not often!” Mary sing-songs. “Maybe if I ever found myself a sweet fella like you did, or a pretty little gal, maybe _then_ I would—”

“Mary, Billy. That's enough.” Uncle Dudley scolds as he comes back into the living room, a big ol’ bowl of popcorn and three colas balanced in his arms. His voice cuts through the argument without even having to yell, and you both go all quiet. “Now apologize to each other.”

You look at the floor. “Sorry, Mary.”

Mary sighs, her expression falling flat. “Yeah, I'm sorry too, Billy.” She says. “I just don't get much to tease you on. I didn’t mean anything mean by it.”

You offer a smile. “It's okay.”

Uncle Dudley chuckles from somewhere deep down in his chest. “Good. Now, someone come and help this old man with all these. I'm about to spill the drinks all over the carpet.” He says and offers out the three bottles balanced between his arm and stomach, which Mary clambers to her feet to grab.

Not too much after you’d been officially adopted, Uncle Dudley had went and decided that the three of you needed to be able to bond and adjust to the new environment. It was eventually decided to be a group movie night—every other Thursday, it was the only day his work would reliably let him off early enough—and, even with all the hardest parts of the adoption over, it had become something more like a tradition then a mandatory event. Everyone enjoyed the time set aside for catching up and keeping connected, after all. Sometimes your job as Captain Marvel sure made things difficult, but for the most part you pretended you’d make it back before the credits while Mary and Uncle Dudley pretended to believe your excuses. It made you feel a bit like a liar, but as long as neither of them got hurt, you guessed it would be okay.

Movie selection changed each time, with Dudley, then you, then Mary, and the cycle went and restarted each time after her. Tonight was Uncle Dudley's choice. Like usual, he goes with one of those neat classic noir flicks, all filmed in black and white. It isn’t the most interesting sort of movie, but far better than the spooky horror that Mary would always wanna watch.

“Next time,” Mary starts, scooping up two of the cola bottles from Dudley’s arm and balancing them both in one hand. “We should eat dinner in here while we watch the movie. That way we save time _and_ don’t spend the whole night gorging on a bunch of junk! I know I always feel a little icky after so much popped corn.”

You hold the urge to snort and comment. Instead, you put all your effort into reaching across the coffee table to where the white blanket’s been abandoned, all while staying as silent as possible. Stealth was never something you ever did well with, not with people like Superman and Martian Manhunter around, but you can keep quiet if it’s really important. Like right now, for example.

Uncle Dudley sees you and raises an eyebrow, but thankfully doesn’t say anything to point you out. Instead, he looks down at her. “I think it’s more than just the popcorn. After all, the rest of those treats don’t eat themselves.”

“You know I like chocolate,” Mary protests with a pout, then turns back to the couch. She spots you almost immediately, but by then it’s just too late. The blanket has already been tucked in, all nice and soft over your legs into the sides on the chair. “ _Billy_! Put that back!”

You stick out your tongue.

Mary’s shoulders jerk up. “Uncle Dudley!”

He grins. “Sorry, dear.” Uncle Dudley gives a jolly one-shouldered shrug and adjusts his hold on the popped corn. “You know the rules, if you get up then anyone can take your spot.” He pauses and sends you a wink. “Or blanket.”

You can’t help but snicker. “Yeah, those are the _rules_ , Mary.”

“Well fine!” Mary places your coke down on the coffee table a little harsh, before she plops right down into Uncle Dudley's favorite recliner. “I guess we’re all following the rules tonight, then!” Mary cracks open her soft drink with a satisfied smirk and pulls the lever until she’s almost laying all the way down.

Uncle Dudley pauses, eyes all big like he’s just so surprised by what she did, before he bursts into laughter. “I guess we are!” He takes the couch with a bigger smile then you’d expected, stretches out and pops like a great big roll of bubble wrap. “That just means this bowl is all mine though.” Uncle Dudley says, and laughs all over again as you both scramble to apologize.

The movie is about as fun as you’d expected it to be. A pretty little dame strolls into a private detective’s office with a case, and it just goes from there. Really, you think that you might have already seen this one before the plot’s just so familiar. The best part of the night is that you manage to hold out longer than Mary does—a hard task on good days, she’s such a complete _night-owl_ —but it’s a sure close thing, maybe ten minutes at best. The last scene you remember before you’d completely dozed is a flashback to the woman’s ex-husband’s murderer’s death, and even that isn’t enough to keep your eyes open.

You aren’t sure how long it’s been when you wake up next, but the windows are still dark and across the room you can hear Mary’s snores, so you would think it hasn’t been too much time. The television’s been switched off and the couch is empty though, so Uncle Dudley must’ve finished the film and went to bed a good few hours ago.

You wonder whether or not you should wake Mary up and help her to the bedroom, the couch and chairs never the nicest on a back, but think back to her taunts earlier that day and decide that she’ll be just fine.

Just as you start to fold the fluffy white blanket up for the linen closet, the distant sound of metal scraping metal reaches your ears.

It’s been some time since you had been going from abandoned building to abandoned building each night, but certain little things never really left a person after a life of that sorts. One of yours just so happened to be recognising the sound of someone trying to break in.

As quiet as could be, you tiptoe closer to the kitchen, stopping for a moment at the front closet to grab out a baseball bat. _Just in case_ , you tell yourself. The noise had become a little more frantic in the time it takes to get there, almost like the person on the other side was getting frustrated at the lack of progress. You stop crouched behind the shadow of the kitchen table.

For a moment you wonder whether you should greet the invader as Captain Marvel, but decide the baseball bat should be good enough to give them a little scare. Maybe if they saw you just standing there, then they would leave. It’s happened once or twice before.

After another series of scrapes and scratches, the lock to the kitchen window finally gives a little click and the pane is pushed open. It squeaks—all loud and old from the disuse just, well, just because Uncle Dudley never saw any reason to open the window, so neither had anyone else—and intruder manages to open it the rest of the way without much more of a problem.

The person shimmies up and out into the kitchen proper, lands with a hard thud and the tired hiss of a bad word that makes you tighten your grip of the bat. The room is suddenly loud with panted breaths.

Jeez, okay, you should probably do something now that they made it inside. You stand up from your spot and the burglar freezes cold like an ice-pop.

“Shit.” You hear in a ragged out-of-breath whisper. “Shit, wait l. . . Shit.”

Slow—if you wanna be scary in the dark then you gotta go slow, it’s the people from Gotham’s big number one and you’ve noticed, it _works_ —steps, they don’t do much while you creep on forward. You raise the bat, make sure they can see it well. “Could you leave, please?” You ask the robber in a whisper of your own, mindful of the other room.

“. . .B-Bil. . .” They break off in gasps and bend over, hands on their knees a second before they make a time-out sign. You don't lower the baseball bat. “Just, _holy fuck_ , Billy. . .chill the hell out. It’s. . .shitting Christ, chill it’s me!”

 _Holy moley_. Squinting in the darkness, the long outline of the cape and ruffled shape of his hair are visible. You blink. “ _Dave_?” You say, too loud, and freeze to listen back to Mary’s bear-like snores. Then, again all quiet like. “Dave?”

Dave vaguely waves a hand at you, still kneeling over at the waist and sucking in air like he’s run a marathon. “Oh, uh, yeah. . .I was. . . in the. . .neighborhood, and all that.”

You take a cup out of the cabinet and make him a glass of water. It’s empty in one gulp, so you fill another and this time add ice from the tray in the freezer, tell him not to drink so fast. Dave gives the closest thing he’s got to a smile, as tired as it is, and follows when you lead him over to one of the kitchen table chairs to sit.

“Are you okay?”

He nods, takes another smaller drink.

You press your lips together tight, because even _you_ can tell he’s lying. Right to your face and all. “I'm not kidding about this, Dave! What happened?” You all but demand, trying for a tone that says 'No Monkey Business’ and ending up with a bit of a whine instead. This interrogation stuff has never been your forte, you guess.

With him so close to you, even the darkness can't hide the layer of sweat that makes his temples and cheeks just up and shine. You have to stop yourself before you can move to wipe it off with your sleeve, because that would be weird and this is serious. It’s serious even if he doesn’t want to act like it is.

Dave shrugs, pretty casual like. “Nothin’ much, alright?” He says, breath mostly back despite the little bit of a wheeze over his words. “Can't a guy just drop by his good bud’s place at four in the morning and it not be weird?”

“No.” You furrow your brow and catch a look at the corner of the room on the stove. He’s right, it’s almost ten-past. It’s so late that you think that you should be more tired than you truly feel. “If it's something bad, you know that you can tell me about it. I wouldn’t judge.”

“It’s all good in the hood.”

“What does that mean?”

Dave reaches up to where you’re beside him, almost at the same height with him in a chair, and ruffles your hair. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

You frown deep at him; it really wasn’t the time for his silly phrases. “ _Dave_.”

“Look, I’m fine, okay? It’s just been a long night for me.” He shrugs again, sips at his ice water and avoids your eyes behind the sunglasses. “Don’t get so freaked out on me, Batson.”

Your hearts gives an all out painful lurch. “Batson?” You repeat. It's distant, the sort of professionalism you get from the big ol’ bullies like Black Adam, and you _hate that_. Your voice wobbles and goes real firm at the same time. “Look, I don’t know why you want to be such a jerk about this and act like nothing’s happened, but _you’re_ the one who broke into _my_ house Dave! If you want to come in here and lie to me, go act like I’m just some annoying kid, then you can leave!” You ball your hands up, just feel like you're seconds from tears. “I just want to help!”

The kitchen echoes quiet as you both stare at each other. Dave sighs, runs his thumb over the condensation on the glass of his cup. Heat makes your head feel light, but something about this has just got you so darn _mad_ , madder than you’ve been in a long while. You can’t let it go.

You want him to leave just as much as you want him to stay, because this isn’t cool. You don’t even really understand what ‘this’ completely means, but you still understand that it _isn’t_.

You open your mouth to say something again, maybe even shout, but he cuts you off with another big sigh, goes and reaches up to take off his sunglasses. It’s hard to really all-out see his eyes before he rubs at them.

“I’ve got some. . .people.” Dave begins. “Some people who have been following me around.”

It’s like you were plucked right out the oven and then stuck in a freezer with how fast your heart stops. “You—” _You promised me_ , you almost say but don't. “Who? A-Are, is everything—”

“So, I might've maybe sort of almost had a run in with a couple guys I’d rather not meet in a dark alley, y’know? I saw them before they saw me, booked it, and ended up in the neighborhood.” He makes a face you think is supposed to be a sheepish smile. “Decided I would pop in, maybe spend the night here and hightail it in the morning before anyone noticed. It's better than the streets, right?”

He's right. You sure would rather Dave staying with you any day of the week then squatting in some old warehouse.

You can't think of anything to say though, just focus to keep on swallowing down the brick in your belly that just keeps trying to come back up and looking him over. Dave doesn't look like he's hurt, but you sometimes there's the stuff that you can't see. Not on the outside, anyway.

“Look.” Dave finishes off the rest of the glass, slides his sunglasses back into place. “It isn't as bad as it all sounds. One of them, it's just, she's got this petty grudge shit going on with me, been a pain in my ass for centur—” He pauses, goes and corrects himself. “For a long time.”

You hesitate, but eventually nod. “Okay.”

“I can't have anyone turn me over to the cops — or worse, that Captain Marvel dude.” Dave tells you, expression resolute. “And either of them would do it in a heartbeat. They're a couple of sore fucking losers like that.”

A 'couple guys’ isn't enough to send someone halfway across the city, not someone so ace like Dave. He's been by the docks, you know, which is _miles_ from Uncle Dudley's apartment. Still though. Dave's so chill, all relaxed and comfortable now that he's gotten his breath back, you don't know how to feel.

Dave _promised_ to you that he wasn't bad, that his hands were clean. It was like a joke between you both now, some 'haha that time Billy let his imagination get the best of him’ sort of thing, and if Dave told you he was honest than you'd want to believe that he was honest.

You're not entirely sure he meant it anymore.

A boy can hope though.

“Okay.” You say again, because you aren't sure what else to. “I think. . .I think we should go to bed. It's late.”

Dave looks at you with critical eyes. You still can’t tell the color, but they look bright in the dim light. Like they glow, even. You give up and turn to the living room.

“Hold up there, bud.” He says, purses his lips, just as you start to leave to get blankets. You stop with your back still to him. “You're upset about something, aren't you?”

If you were all mad before, you don't even know how you feel now. It's just, well numb isn't the right word but upset sure isn't either. “I'm fine. All, uh, good in the hood.” You try for a smile to the wall, feel it awkward and drop the expression, then turn around anyway because there's no reason to be rude.

He raises an eyebrow at that, arched right up on his sunglasses. “What's up?”

Well shoot.

“Really, there's nothing.” You say after a moment of thought. “I was. Uhm. I was wondering where you would sleep, because uh.” Shoot, double time. _You_ wouldn't even believe yourself, and Dave's eyebrow just keeps on climbing. “I don't think Uncle Dudley would be real happy that you broke in without him knowing about it.”

“Uh-huh, _sure_.” Dave puts his hands on his hips and looks down at you. At his face guilt bubbles up, and it's the clearest thing you can feel in your chest. “You wanna try that one again, shortstack? I may be the Helen Keller of emotions, but even I have enough experience with emotionally constipated assholes to know when something's wrong. Spill.”

“I—”

There's a creak and the both of you up and freeze.

Another one of those street talents you've got? It's recognising the sound of when an old door opens. And the only door in the apartment like that is Uncle Dudley's.

You forgot he has super early shifts on Fridays.

You have a hand around Dave’s arm before you've even fully understood what the noises, and he follows when you drag him through the living room. Mary’s snores make your fast-pace heart calm a bit but Uncle Dudley's tired footsteps down the hall make you move quick. You shove Dave into your shared bedroom without a second thought.

“Stay here.” You whisper-hiss. Dave doesn't even get to nod before you've closed the door and bolted back to the table.

You've only just sat down, shoulders all slumped over and hair messed, and started to fiddle with Dave’s empty cup when Uncle Dudley walks in.

“Billy.” He says, surprised.

You give a sleepy smile and faint wave. “Hey, Uncle Dudley.” You yawn.

He blinks at you, looks around to take in the kitchen. “You're up pretty early.” Uncle Dudley says slowly. It's the way he always does when this happens, like he thinks he might spook you. He never does it with Mary, not once ever, but you think it has to do with what the woman at the adoption center called you — 'Damaged Goods’. You don't really get what it means but by how Uncle Dudley chewed her out, you don't think it was anything nice. “Why's the window open?”

“Hmmm?” You mumble and balance you chin in your hand, all fuzzy through your palm. “Oh, yeah.” The fake yawn is a little loud but you don't let it trip you up, keep forging ahead. “I woke up and wanted some air. Sorry. I didn't think anyone would mind too much.”

Uncle Dudley nods with that sad face he makes everytime this happens, like he thinks something is his fault. “That's fine.” Is all he says before he goes to start the coffee pot and you hold back a big loud sigh of relief.

Well good gravy, it worked again.

You don't like lying, aren't particularly good at it, but you've had to pick it up to keep your identity a secret. The best way to pull off getting back to the apartment real late from League missions is to act like your been woken up by some bad dreams. It makes you feel bad to lie to people who do so much for you—and sometimes, you've noticed, when Captain Marvel gets home _real_ late a lot of times in a row, it makes them act weird and sad whenever they see you even though they never like to say anything about _why_ they're all weird and sad—but you always do your best to make it up to them.

You watch Uncle Dudley fiddle with the frame of the window for a minute before he pulls it down with the same squeak it had made going up. The coffee maker growls and spurts into its pot in the background.

“I'm sorry, Uncle Dudley. I think I might go try to sleep a little more before it gets any earlier though.” You tell him, because you do feel bad but you also really need to get back to Dave. Hopefully before anything _else_ happens. “I love you.”

Uncle Dudley gives you a strained smile, one wide enough to show all his crooked teeth but still all pinched up in the corners. “Okay. And I love you too, Billy.” He says. “I'm here to listen if you ever need it.”

There isn’t much to say to that, so you just turn and leave through to the kitchen. Mary is still curled up in the recliner when you sneak through the living room, so you make sure to walk quiet and step over all of the loose boards under the rug that make noise. If having Uncle Dudley up and about while you try to work things out was bad, then to add Mary would only make it worse. At least he understands that you need privacy sometimes.

You don’t realize until you’ve already got a hand on the doorknob, but there aren’t any sounds from inside the room. It strikes you that Dave has possibly left, snuck out through the window just as he had snuck in. The thought makes you feel all unsure and numb-like again, and you swallow that down.

He _didn’t_ leave. You still trust Dave. And anyways, it’s always innocent until proven guilty, right? You don’t have proof so you haven’t proven anything, haven’t proven that Dave lied or tricked you or could be a good person who does bad things.

The door doesn’t make a sound as you push it open and you creep inside. It’s darker in the bedroom than it had been in the kitchen, with the curtains outright locking out any light that could have provided some vision, but you know the layout like the back of your hand and there’s a shape on the floor that doesn’t belong there.

“We in the clear?” The outline of Dave asks from where he’s crossed legged in the middle of the rug, arms braced over the tops of his knees.

“Uhm.” You squint at him, go and try to make out any more details than what you already have. It’s hard, the red of his clothes blends in too well and his pale hair and skin don’t give up any better details. “Yeah. Uncle Dudley thinks I’m going to sleep so he won’t come in here.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

You blink. “Aren’t I what?”

Dave stares right at you. “Aren’t you going back to sleep?” He asks. “I mean, I woke you up at asscrack o’clock just trying to break in here. You should clock out, at least before the sun comes up. It’s already five, dude.”

“What about you? I bet you didn’t sleep _at all_ last night!” You counter.

He holds his palms out, and you think you see his teeth glinting with a smile. “Touché, little man, caught me red handed.” Dave says. “Listen. You’re tired, I’m tired, and we could argue this all day if we _really_ wanted to. How about we settle with a compromise and both hit the hay? That way, I won’t pass out from sleep deprivation and you get a full night's sleep so that one day you might grow taller than 5’1.”

It's still such a _Dave_ thing to say that you decide to follow along; maybe when you wake up everything could feel all normal again. “Yeah, okay.”

Dave takes your bed and you take the floor—because it's rude to use someone's bed without their permission and there's no reason to wake Mary up to use her's—and five minutes later you're both curled up, half-asleep.

“I'll. . .see ya. . .” Dave trails off in a couple yawns. “See ya in the morning, Billy.”

You don't know what you had expected, but he's gone when you wake up.


	10. Superman: Be Introduced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girl’s eyes widen as she registers all of what he’s said, muscles tensed. “You’re the. . .protectors of this universe. . .?” She repeats, realization spreading across her expression like a roll of thunder. “Oh no! I can’t _believe_ I teleported straight into the headquarters of the stupid _space police_!”

Your name is CLARK KENT, a  do-good INVESTIGATIVE REPORTER and SMALL TOWN COUNTRY BOY from Smallville, Kansas. Your name is also SUPERMAN, the MAN OF STEEL and LAST SON OF KRYPTON. As an original founder of the JUSTICE LEAGUE, a member of the so-called HOLY TRINITY and, most importantly, the husband of the ever so lovely LOIS LANE, you would like to think you've done your parents proud. In fact, you're due for a visit to the KENT FARM once you make it back to Earth.

It's beautiful.

It doesn't matter how often you find yourself in the cold reaches of space, you’ll always be enraptured with just how gorgeous the vast endless void can be. The distant suns and stars, each surrounded by their colorful satellites, the glitters of frozen ice and stone through the swallows of the black, the warm soft embrace of a yellow sun unfiltered by an atmosphere. You could never feel so powerful yet so insignificant, not anywhere else in the galaxies. There are times you just want to stay here, far from the chaos on Earth — on _any_ planet. It's nice to relish in the peace of space, a reprieve from the everyday battles. You were taught better than to shy away from your responsibilities though, and even in this relaxing emptiness you can still feel the weight of them.

“Still no sign of them.” John Stewart reports. His voice echoes back in your commlink seconds later, the transmission stalled through the distances it has to travel.

Everyone has been split into three different teams of two—Simon Baz with Jessica Cruz, Guy Gardner with Kyle Rayner, and John with yourself—because going it alone in space with such an uncertain situation was reckless. Even after so many days of fruitless searching, it never hurt to be careful.

Seemingly spurned by the update, Guy groans. “This is a complete waste of time.” He complains, his Baltimore accent clear even through the mild static. “Why’d _we_ have to track this stupid thing down? I thought the Guardians said they knew where it went!”

“Is he serious?” Jessica rhetorically mutters into the link, at the same time that Simon snorts.

“Oa never said they _knew_ where it went, just that they had a general idea.” Kyle reminds him, his voice in the same place between patient and exasperated it’s been for the majority of the mission. “Over half the Core is out looking for it.”

“Who cares? I'm just ready to take the damn thing out!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gardner! This monster managed to damage the main Power Battery and stop the Guardians from following it, and you think you'll be able to stop it on your own? It's possible that it could kill any one of us once we find it, and that's even _if_ we can.” John snaps into his commlink with a scowl, and for you his words repeat over themselves moments after each word. Despite the fact that Guy can’t see either of you at the moment, you nod along in agreement. “You know just how serious this mission is, so do us a favor and act like it.”

“Yeah, whatever you say, _boss_.” Guy drawls, outright sarcastic.

Through the bright green shine of the solar system’s sun, John’s face twitches in irritation—an expression of his that solely belongs to Guy’s particular brand of nonchalant disregard—and he pinches the bridge of his nose. You send a sympathetic look towards him. Guy has always been dependable in a fight, but the ways his demeanour gets on the other Lantern’s nerves were well known throughout the League — of the rest of the Green Lanterns, Hal might be the one who can stand him the most.

“I'm just glad this is an actual mission, not another training exercise.” Jessica mentions, conversational even through the tension.

“At least we can agree on that.” Simon mutters. “Still wish Jordan would've unfused our lanterns before we left. I don't want to suffocate in space all because you got yourself bumped off like an idiot by some green alien.”

Jessica’s breath stutters a moment over the commlink. “I-I—”

Kyle jumps into the conversation before she can get any further. “Let’s be honest, if either of you would be ‘bumped off like an idiot’, it wouldn’t be her.” He says, and while it’s clear his words are more of an assurance to Jessica than a challenge to Simon, he still rushes to correct himself. “It wouldn’t be either of you!”

Of both new Green Lanterns, there wasn’t much information circulating about them aside from the regular League gossip. Some of the more. . .conservative members have themselves convinced of Simon’s past in terrorism, while others still assumed Jessica to be an illegal. You aren’t one to indulge in rumors—especially such, well, _bigoted_ ones—but even you know of Jessica’s problems with her anxieties. You’re almost surprised it's taken so long for them to get a hold of her, as terrible as it feels to think.

Simon seems to realize what he’s done almost instantly, and quickly mutters a terse “Oh fuck” to himself. There’s the sound of movement before his voice comes through twice, presumably through both his own commlink and Jessica’s. “You’re not doing this shit again, Jess, c’mon. I’m fine, they’re fine, and you’re fine.”

You make eye contact with John. “Is everything okay over there?” You ask.

“Jessica?” Kyle calls. “Simon?”

“I—I. . .” Jessica takes a deep breath. “Yeah, we’re fine. Everyone is fine.”

The conversation falls after that, silent and reflective. A part of you wishes that the atmosphere wouldn’t turn so tense so often, but given that it’s been over a week since the Guardians assigned your group to the usually inactive Sector 4206 it was almost inevitable. There were just too many unknowns.

Who damaged the Core? How did they manage to crack it? _Why_?

The entire assignment was a search-and-detain, but the Guardians had informed all available members that the being who attacked Oa would likely not go down without a fight. It seemed as if, in their eyes, any sacrifices made to capture the perpetrator wouldn’t be in vain — an _unacceptable_ philosophy. The thought that Green Lanterns were so easily replaceable to them was chilling, and you could only imagine how it must have felt.

As of late, both Kyle and Guy spend a majority of their time on Oa to train the newest Lanterns and take care of what the Guardians deem top-level threats to the universe, while John has years upon years of experience in life-or-death situations from both the Marines and the Corps. The other two are almost children in comparison, so some raw nerves were to be expected.

John clears his throat. “Remember, everyone.” His voice is split between soft and confident, but either way still incredibly careful. “This Sector should be completely uninhabited. None of the seven planets that orbit the green sun can support life, so don’t forget to keep an eye on planetside activities too.”

A gruff grumble comes across the commlink. “There’s _still_ nothing.” Guy complains. “You know, just like yesterday and the day before that, and the day before—”

“Same for us.” Simon interrupts.

Even with the added assistance of your enhanced hearing and vision, not much stands out. John’s ring throws out sensors tirelessly, left and right, as you drift through the three outermost planets, with pretty similar results. There’s only the slightest chill on your hands as you softly push the listless space debris out of your path to continue forward.

Kyle hums to himself. “I don’t know, this guy sure knows how to do a hit and run.” There’s a few snorts over the link at that.

You open your mouth to respond, tell Kyle to keep focused before he derails the entire group into off-track jokes and jabs at one another again, when you suddenly hear what could only be a distant voice speaking in _American English_ , of all languages.

“ _I wonder how much longer it’ll be until I find another planet with some food. I could really go for something fresh right now, maybe a salad._ ”

You stop, hold out a hand to signal John does the same.

This is millions of miles from any civilization, a sun surrounded by two different uninhabited solar systems. You shouldn’t hear any voices other then those of the Green Lanterns with you and, in the case that they’re present, the mysterious creature from Oa. Still, despite the descriptions of them being ‘human-like’ by the Guardians and Lanterns present at the time, there had been no indication that there were any other human attributes you’d needed to be aware of, _especially_ not human speech.

Most species learn language through exposure, not instinct, and no languages from Earth were used anywhere else in the galaxies. Nothing _this_ far from the Milky Way should reasonably known English.

Just who were you dealing with?

John follows your lead and slows to a stop. “Superman?”

“ _What do you think, Davepeta? I mean, if I teleported somewhere with food it would kind of ruin the whole advantage of being so far out here, but it wouldn’t be against the rules. Would it? I mean, I don’t think I would even if you said no, it’s just that all the planets this far out don’t have anything I can ea_ — _a_ — _A-Achoo! Heh, sorry about that! Anyways, I haven’t seen an occupied planet since the first one I landed on,_ _and those guys were total fuckasses!_ ”

He falls silent at a wave of your hand, and you focus on the voice. It’s unfamiliar, airy and feminine yet layered with an almost animalistic growl over certain words. It _could_ be human, could very well be human.

“ _Okay, you know how I started way far out from where everyone else ended up? So, well, that ended up being in the middle of these little blue men and this massive green device!_ _It must have messed with my nose for some reason because I sort of sneezed and. . .uh, broke it. I think. I sort of left before the little men could get mad or turn me in._ ”

Your eyes widen. Whoever this person was, they were talking about the Oan Guardians and the Central Power Battery.

And, more importantly, about _breaking_ it.

“I found her.” You relay to John, hurried, and then dart off towards the direction the voice is from. There isn’t any sense of urgency to the way she speaks, so it’s likely that she somehow hasn’t noticed any of the search parties.

“Her? Who is—! Superman, hold on!” John yells, and follows you at full tilt.

“I’ve found her, found our mysterious green intruder.” You say again for the commlink, and what echos back a several sharps sounds of surprise, mixed with Guy’s whoop of excitement.

“How?” Simon demands.

“ _Hahah, you’re too sweet! This solar system has a green sun in it, is all. It messes with my powers since this one isn’t my Green Sun, and because of that I just keep on sneezing all the time! With that and the lack of food all the way out here, I sort of wish I’d started somewhere closer to Earth._ ”

“I can hear her.” You tell them. “We could’ve missed her if we all shifted any closer to the sun, she’s here on the outskirts with the meteor belt. It sounds like she’s talking with someone but I can’t make out any responses, so I don’t know whether the other person is physically present.”

John, who’s managed to catch back up despite your quick pace, gives a sharp nod before he begins to bark orders. “Alright, Teams 2 and 3, converge on our position. We’re headed West-North-West towards the meteor belt, so Team 2 take our left flank and Team 3, take right. We’ve got nothing but Superman’s ear going in, so be prepared for anything to happen once we reach the target. And no sensors, full speed on silent — we want to catch this girl unaware before she can even think to put up a fight. Do _not_ forget what happened to the Core. This is a high alert situation we have on our hands. Clear?”

A resolute “Clear!” comes in response, somewhat hampered by Guy’s mutter of “Oh _c’mon_ , what’s the point of hunting down some dangerous enemy of Oa if you aren’t allowed to fight ‘em?”. Still, it’s clear that everyone understands — there isn’t any more fooling around, not until she’s caught.

You follow the steady beat of her heart when her voice disappears, weave through any obstacles and make sure to keep yourself on the most direct path to her location.

There’s another sneeze, then another.

The sound of her heartbeat mingles with the slow inhale-exhale of what can’t be oxygen as you get closer, and your eyes find the frosted-over meteor you know she’s hidden in. John follows your line of sight and gives another nod, ring at the ready.

You’re so close.

“ _Hold on, I think I hear_ —”

Close enough.

“She’d heard us!” You report in the comm. “Close in on the large cylindrical meteor directly ahead!”

John’s ring flares bright green, and a massive hand appears and grabs the meteor in its fist. The hunk of stone has the length and width of a skyscraper, but the construct digs its fingers in deep and shakes as if it’s made of nothing more than paper. A figure tumbles out of the largest cavern and you redirect.

It’s a girl—a _human girl_ —in black robes, and she manages to righten herself mid-tumble just before you reach her. For the briefest moment, as her head snaps up, you meet wide green eyes.

Then you punch her in the face.

Or, at least, you try to.

Your fist is a mere millimeter from the tip of her nose, close enough to feel the heat radiate off of her, when the girl grins and disappears in a flash.

The attack glides through literal empty space and you spin with the momentum, listen into the void to relocate her heartbeat. It starts again to the far left behind you, but John manages to find her first. His net construct is easily dodged, her hair and the twin-tailed hood of her robes whipping behind her while she darts out of reach.

“You need to watch where you throw those, mister!” She calls out, then pauses when she takes in John’s uniform. “You’re one of those guys that were with the little blue men!”

He elects to ignore the comment, and instead creates another hand. It’s a much closer touch than the net had been, inches from curling around the loose ends of her robes, but she still manages to throw herself far enough to evade the attmept. The girl yelps as it rushes past her.

“You almost got my tail, fuckass!”

“That’s the point!” John snaps and tries again.

This time you follow the assault, physically lunging out towards her from the opposite direction. The most you manage to do is make her backpedal and have John’s construct almost collide with you rather than her.

“We’re nearly there, and we’ve got Team 3 with us.” Kyle’s voice filters, out of breath, through the commlinks.

“Good. We can’t get a hold on her!” John replies. “Superman and I are doing our best to keep her distracted, but she doesn’t seem to want to sit still.” John manages to close a box construct around her, but she simply huffs and reappears beside it in another flash of electric green. “And be warned, she’s a B46.”

Kyle sucks in a breath. “A teleporter?”

Another box construct, another teleportation. For the most part, it’s been less of a battle and more of a game of tag so far. The girl hasn’t made any moves to actually _fight_ yet, but you keep a careful attention to her hands at all times for a sign that she’s prepared to go on the offensive. A part of you wonders where her conversation partner went off to, or if they’re even there at all.

On the bright side, it isn’t the all-out bloodied brawl you had dreaded.

You grit your teeth when she flashes away from you, but manage a smile when something occurs to you. “She’s also, surprisingly enough, not green.”

The girl pauses mid-air, and pulls a face. “Who said I was green?” She purses her lips unhappily. “It was the blue men, wasn’t it? I mean, I can _sneeze_ green, but that’s only my stupid allergies! I haven’t been green in _forever_ , and even then I was just as gray as I was green.” The girl complains, her ears perking up in indignation.

It takes a moment for you to process that they weren’t regular ears, rather the ears a dog would have and — oh, she has a tail too. So that’s what she’d meant.

“Hold still.” John grunts, the frustration clear across his face as yet another attempt to catch her is deftly dodged.

In the moment before she again flickers out of your reach, her cheeks puff out and splotch red. “ _Maybe_ I would if you told me why it is you want to trap me! I don’t even know who you people are, or how you found me!”

“Don’t play dumb with us. You know what happened and who we are.” John scolds. The light of the other four Lantern’s arrival creates a powerful green glow that surrounds her. “We are the Green Lanterns of the Green Lantern Corps. It’s our job to protect the universe and all those who inhabit it. You endangered those under our care when you damaged our Power Battery and fled from Oa, and we have been sent by the Guardians of the Universe to detain you for your crimes.” John brandishes his ring with a certain dramatic flare. “Now, either surrender or prepare for the fight of your life.”

The girl’s eyes widen as she registers all of what he’s said, muscles tensed. “You’re the. . .protectors of this universe. . .?” She repeats, realization spreading across her expression like a roll of thunder. “Oh no! I can’t _believe_ I teleported straight into the headquarters of the stupid _space police_!” The girl cries and throws her hands over her face.

Simon snorts but doesn’t drop his guard, fist raised at the ready. “Yeah, that _is_ some shit luck right there.”

She looks up. “Look, I am _so so_ sorry about that thing I broke! I didn’t mean to! I would’ve stayed to help fix it, but all the galaxies I pass through have green suns. It keeps messing with m- _m_ —”

It’s as if her next words find themselves caught somewhere in her chest, and you watch in complete slow motion as her face screws up, the space around you beginning to flutter and twitch with pure energy as if it were _alive_.

Then, she sneezes.

It hits your chest like a sledgehammer, and the force sends you spiraling backwards. The Lanterns all cry out as it flings them away as well, all sense of direction lost as you tumble uncontrollably through the emptiness. The leaves your both breathless and restored, a clear painful singe across your chest in a line.

So it’s solar radiation then.

You don’t bother to open your eyes back until the world has stopped its spinning joyride. Immediately, Jessica catches your attention a short ways off from where you landed, groaning and rubbing at her head in pain. The green aura that surrounds her is still thankfully intact, despite the dark burn marks across her left arm. Jessica meets your eyes with a weak but affirmative nod, and works to right herself.

“Oh, oh jeez, I didn’t mean to do that!”

The adrenaline kicks back into your system at the reminder of what, or rather _who_ , just managed to send out a burst of radiation powerful enough to send six well-trained members of the Justice League flying through space.

You catch her back out of your peripheral vision, hands over her mouth like she’s horrified with herself, and you hesitate. That isn’t the reaction of someone who wanted, _wants_ , to cause harm. Words are one thing to follow—people can lie themselves blue in the face if it saves them trouble, you’ve seen it and you’ve done it—but raw reactions are completely different.

Your mind goes back to her earlier actions. The refuses to engage in actual combat with John and yourself, the genuine confusion over the Green Lantern Corps and clear distress over the damage to the Power Battery and Oa.

A whoop from Guy’s direction grabs your attention, and a construct of green ropes tie around her. The girl’s arms fold against her chest at awkward angles in the rope as it tethers her in place. In surprise she jerks back, but the cords tightened with each attempt to move.

“I appreciate someone who’s willing to play dirty to win, but _man_ did you fuck that up.” Guy says. He doesn’t sound annoyed, but more so amused. “I mean, with those innocent puppy dog eyes I bet you’da had us. I was _this_ close to even believing you weren’t even the big baddie we were supposed to beat into the ground! Then you went blew your cover.” Guy shrugs with a smirk. “But, hey, your mistake kid.”

The ropes tighten at the end of his brief speech and she gasps out a breath. “I wasn’t trying to convince you of anything, I just wanted to explain what happened!” She insists. “And I don’t want to fight anyone! I just _sneezed_!”

“One hell of a sneeze.” John pointedly remarks as he and Kyle help to steady Simon back upright.

“Agreed.” Jessica grumbles. “Let’s just get her to Earth already, okay? I’m pretty sure I’m done with space for the next couple decades.”

The girl’s expression falls and she pops out of her restrains, reappearing right beside them and ignoring Guy’s indignant shout at the action. “So, wait, hold on.” She holds up her hands. “You guys are a part of the space police, and I’m officially under arrest for that lantern I broke?”

Kyle furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “Yes? I thought that was pretty clear from his whole speech earlier.” He says.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Her arms tuck behind her back and she grins up, bashful. “I just had to make sure!”

You frown. “Why is that?”

“Well, um. Okay. It probably doesn’t make much sense to you, it’s just, if I get arrested then I’m out. I have to make sure that it's an official arrest!”

Your frown grows at that. “Out of _what_ , exactly?”

The girl smiles, eyes closed in perceived innocence. “That isn’t important! What _is_ important is we get back to Earth! I’m _really_ hungry and I bet that your special space police prison has some great food! So, let’s see, I think we’re going to. . .to that huge space station in Earth’s orbit, right?” The collective group freezes in shock at that, but she seems to take it as an affirmative. “Alright! Don’t anyone freak out, but this is gonna feel _really_ weird for a second!”

Space warps, disappears into an electric vat of green, and then you’re gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, look everyone it's Jade. Woah.  
> — Illmerica


	11. acce22 granted ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 00110001 00111000 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 00110010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise bitch.

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] accessed CORE BATCOMPUTER CP --

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] accessed ORACLE DRIVE --

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling Oracle [Oracle] \--

TA: 2urprii2e biitch

TA: ii bet you thought youd 2een the la2t of me

Oracle: ...Did you...

Oracle: Did you just reference American Horror Story?

TA: 2ure let2 go wiith that

Oracle: What happened last time you contacted me? I thought you had destroyed your computer.

TA: iincorrect ii de2troyed A computer

TA: not MY computer

TA: ii mean jegu2 iim not 2ome fuckiing 2avage

Oracle: You have more than one with you?

TA: lol nah

Oracle: ???

TA: well let me rephra2e that

TA: iif by 'wiith me’ you mean 'iin the general premii2e and able two bee 2tolen then de2troyed iif needed’ then ye2

Oracle: Are you telling me that you're stealing other people's computers, despite the fact that you have your own in your possession, on the off chance that you might have to break it?

TA: aw look at you go

TA: under2tandiing ba2iic englii2h and everythiing

Oracle: Where are you that even HAS so many computers?

TA: wouldnt you liike two know

TA: iill giive you a hint

TA: the a22hole hiip2ter2 iin iinternet cafe2 2pend waaaaay too long lookiing at theiir reflectiion2 iin the bathroom

Oracle: You do realize that you've just given me a physical record of your confession to a crime, correct?

TA: who care2?

TA: iit iisnt liike you could fiind me

TA: even iif ii told you exactly where ii am you 2tiill couldn't catch me

TA: ii could just move on two the next overpriiced net cafe a block over

Oracle: That definitely wasn’t your attitude last time we talked.

Oracle: If I’m remembering correctly, which we both know I am, you seemed rather paranoid that I might find where you were.

TA: iim iin a better place then ii wa2 then

TA: more 2ecure

TA: not two mentiion iit ha2 way better coffee

Oracle: Then why contact me?

Oracle: If you’re just here to brag to me, then you're wasting you time AND mine.

TA: 2ee that2 where ii thiink the mii2communiicatiion ii2

Ocacle: Is it REALLY, though?

TA: okay well

TA: maybe ii am here two gloat a liittle biit

TA: the biig bad oracle ii2 2uppo2ed two be the best iin the bu2iine22 here and 2he 2tiil can't piin my IIP down, even after a week two work on iit

TA: 2ometiime2 iit2 ju2t nice to be remiinded youre the ab2olute fuckiing be2t

Oracle: Who said I ever wanted to track you?

TA: you diid

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] accessed CORE BATCOMPUTER CP COMMLINK LOGS --

Oracle: Stop that!

TA: O: outside source accessed CBCP yesterday

TA: B: located?

TA: O: not yet

TA: O: i'm working on it

TA: B: report back when you have coordinates

TA: O: understood

Oracle: Get out of that database!

Ocacle: I get it, okay? You're good at this. I don't need more examples.

Oracle: What do you even want from me?

TA: ii told you la2t tiime

TA: there2 2ome a22hole2 you have two fiind

Oracle: If you're so superior to me then I doubt you actually need my help.

TA: youre riight ii dont

Oracle: Well okay. Why don't you close this chat log, exit yourself from files, and never speak to me again.

Oracle: I'm finding myself more and more fond of that idea with each passing minute.

TA: jegu2 diid you even read our la2t conver2atiion

TA: ii mean 2eriiou2ly

TA: ii would bee offended iif ii diidnt know you people had the attention 2pan of a goldfii2h

Oracle: Oh yes, those “guys” I'm supposed to find that I don't know I'm supposed to find.

TA: yeah them

Oracle: I'm sure I asked then, but I'll do it again now.

Oracle: Why would I help you?

Oracle: You can't even tell me who they are.

TA: ii may not be able two do that but ii can tell you WHERE they are

Oracle: And you think I'll just believe what you say?

TA: do you have any actual rea2on2 not two

Oracle: Whether or not that's true, it most definitely doesn't affect how much trust I have in your ridiculous stories.

TA: fuuuuuuuck

TA: youre 2uch a pain

Oracle: Consider it mutual.

TA: lii2ten two me for liike two 2econd2 okay

TA: there are four iidiiot2 ii have the whereabout2 of that 2hould bee on your radar becau2e iif they arent 2topped then theyre 2eriou2ly goiing two fuck 2ome 2hiit up

TA: iin fact a couple of them have already 2tarted

Oracle: Maybe try to be more vague next time.

Oracle: That would definitely convince me.

TA: fiine

TA: ii get iit youre iin 2ome mood today iill fuck off for now

TA: ju2t remember that when iit all goe2 two 2hiit that ii triied two conviince you two help

Oracle: Yes, and you definitely did your best on that front.

TA: oh fuck off barbara

Oracle: How do you know my name!

TA: heh

Oracle: No!

Oracle: This isn’t something to just ‘heh’ at! How did you learn my name!

TA: maybe iill tell you

TA: but hey quiid pro quiid riight you 2cratch my back then iill 2cratch your2

TA: keep iit iin miind barb

Oracle: Don't you DARE destroy that computer TA, I am SERIOUS!

\-- twinArmageddons [TA]'s computer was smashed! --

Oracle: GodDAMMIT.


	12. Superman: Watch Question Interrogate the Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Says the half-dog half-teenager who can breath in space and teleport.” Kyle mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, looks like this one is late. It's only like a day though, a few hours at best considering our record for updating way too early in the a.m., so hopefully you guys won't string us up by our toes and eviscerate us as punishment for making you wait. Maybe. Probably. Hopefully.  
> — Cutthroat

Superman ==> Watch Question Interrogate the Girl

Question bursts out of the Zeta-Tube a mere six minutes after you contact him, manila folders and thumb drives loaded into his arms.

“Where is she?” He demands immediately. “Take me to her room.”

All attempts to contact Bruce after the girl’s abrupt capture had ended with ignored messages and denied calls. It was Nightwing who had informed you about the situation in Gotham—a total of _four hours_ of struggling to talk to the World’s Greatest Detective later—and let you know that the case had passed hands while you were off-world. Batman’s loner habits were usually more of a sore-spot between him and both Wonder Woman and yourself, but for once you understand what has him so occupied. It isn't everyday that someone’s son completely disappeared from the North American continent. Not even in Gotham.

“It's nice to see you too, Question.”

He tucks the folders more securely under his arm. “We've got business to do. There isn't time for pleasantries when my next lead is wasting away in an examination room.” Question says, as if this should be the obvious conclusion. Maybe for a detective it is. “Now, where is she?”

The walk to the cell is short and brisk, a half-minute at best, but  Question still seems impatient when you reach the door. He looks over at you with an unreadable expression — partially due to the fact that there's no expression present to read.

“You said she hasn't given her name yet, correct?” Question asks, voice tense. He’s always been an intense person—and this is coming from someone who considers _Batman_ to be one of his closest friend—but he seems even more so today than you’ve ever seen before.

“It's not that we haven't asked. It's more that she's been a little. . . preoccupied since we got here.” You press your palm against the door-scan and feel the slight tingle as it reads your prints. “We had to negotiate with food to make sure she wouldn't try to teleport out.”

The door slides open without a sound, and both the room’s occupants look over at the movement. Kyle is leaned against the reinforced window, his outline illuminated prettily with the moon’s tinted shine, while the girl pauses between a bite of what you think might be her third sub sandwich. The table she's seated behind is covered in haphazardly stacked plates and empty cups from the Watchtower mess hall.

Kyle gives a vague wave hello as Question follows you inside. “Well, that was quick.” He comments.

Without a word, Question brushes past you to deposit his arm load onto the evidence table by the wall. At Kyle’s raised eyebrows, you offer a shrug.

“Okay then.” He shrugs too. “Come on in, make yourself comfortable.”

“I was planning on it.” Question replies, then waves him away. “Out, both of you. This is an official League interrogation. I don’t need the muscle hanging around around while I work.”

“Excuse me?”

“You're excused, now goodbye.”

The girl’s ears are alert and perked as she watches Question, and just over the edge of the table you catch the movement of her tag wagging like a curious pup. “How are you talking right now?” She asks. “You don’t even have a mouth! Which, for the record, shouldn’t be biologically possible. Without a mouth, you shouldn’t be able to talk or eat and, and if anything happened to your nose then you couldn’t breath either!”

“Says the half-dog half-teenager who can breath in space and teleport.” Kyle mutters.

“I’m not—” She huffs, then pauses, mentally correcting herself. “Well, okay, it’s a lot more complicated than that, but I guess you aren’t _completely_ wrong.”

Question snaps his fingers, grabbing the room’s attention again in one fell swoop. His arms are crossed, loafer tapping against the tiles. “This is exactly why I need you both out. My informant is getting distracted, and worse, _comfortable_. I understand that those Guardians don't teach you prisoner etiquette out in Galaxy Nine like the rest of us, but this is pathetic.”

“Excuse me!” Kyle says again, more so offended than before. “Look Question, I couldn't care less if Batman put you in charge of an investigation, _she_ ,” He jabs a finger at the girl “is much too dangerous to be left alone with only one person for supervision. Hell, _six_ of us couldn't take her down! Superman and I _need_ to be here.” Kyle leans in with narrowed eyes. “And don't lecture me on 'prisoner etiquette’, I may not have been back long but I've read the reports. You spent a full day at the bedside of your first informant after letting her get _shot_.”

You can _feel_ Question’s anger at his last point, see it in the line of his shoulders and the tight fists of his hands, but he doesn't attempt a counter argument.

“I agree with Green Lantern.” You announce, in an attempt to pull the two out of what's become an intense staring-contest. “I understand you have your preferences, Question, but we can't trust her alone with anyone. That includes you.”

Question’s face is turned towards you with a stock-stillness, eerily faceless, and you're sure that if you were to glance beneath his mask with X-Ray vision all you would see is a nasty scowl.

“Batman has put any and all Leaguers involved with this case under _my_ authority. That doesn't exempt Founders, and that most definitely doesn't exempt one of our _six_ Green Lanterns all because he thinks he's some hotshot investigator all of a sudden.” His voice hovers between extremely calm and extremely furious. “Now, I want both of you out of this room so I can properly interrogate my suspect. Superman can get the full record like all other Founders when I'm finished, and _maybe_ if I'm feeling generous then I could share one with the Green Lanterns.” He waves a hand towards the door. “Now _goodbye_.”

The girl whistles. “Damn.”

Kyle’s face turns red, and he grits his teeth. “I don't think you understand that she's primarily under the Corps’ authority, not _Batman’s_.” He snaps. “This girl has committed a crime against Oa, against the Green Lantern organization! I am under oath to see that she's properly tried and charged for her actions, otherwise I could _lose_ my _ring_ —”

Question steps forward like a challenge. “Well, we're lucky we would still have the other five of you then, huh?”

Kyle steps forward too, a dangerous green light erupting from his fist in response. The ring glows bright in the fluorescent lighting of the interrogation room and behind them both you spot Jade’s nose twitch again, just like it had before she sneezed.

That would blow out half the Watchtower if it happened again.

You step between them in a blur of superspeed before either man can take another step forward and place a hand on each of their shoulders to make sure neither could make it any closer. Question goes tense the moment your palm makes contact with the lapel of his trench coat, while Kyle freezes in surprise, the light of his ring blinking out.

“You two need to calm down.” You tell them, stern. “I understand this is a delicate situation for both sides. The Green Lantern Corps does have a higher authority then Batman does with situations like these, making Green Lantern responsible for her until she’s taken back to Oa for her trial.” Past your shoulder, Kyle sends Question a grin like he’s won. It falters when you continue to talk. “However, I do also understand that interrogations are tricky at the best of times, and crowds can affect the results. Four people _would_ likely cause distractions, so I propose a compromise.”

Kyle frowns but doesn’t comment; Question starts to tap his foot again and nods.

Leaned over the table like a curious child, the girl rests her chin on her fist. “What is it?”

You sigh. It would have been better not to have an argument like this in front of her, but dragging both of them out of the room hadn’t been an option either. She _does_ have to be supervised.

“Question can’t be left alone but can’t have both of us present will he talks with her. So, given the circumstances, I’ll stay here while Green Lantern waits outside the room.” You hope it’s obvious that the ‘circumstances’ are mostly the fact that neither can seem to stand the other. “I won’t interrupt Question while he works, and you’ll be nearby in the event that something does happen.”

Question considers it for a moment. “Acceptable.”

“Superman—!”

You hold up a hand. “It’s alright.” You spare a glance towards the girl only to be sent an innocent smile. There’s no reason _not_ to be wary of what she might do—might be _able_ to do—but for the most part she hasn’t threatened anyone, just flaunted how powerful she is. “It’s not as if anyone could really keep her here is she didn’t want to stay.”

Kyle grumbles, stalking to the door. “Fine, but if I hear _anything_ then I’m coming in.” He warns.

With a final pointed look towards Question, he leaves the room. The door is soundless as it closes but for all intents and purposes it might as well have been slammed.

“ _Finally._ ” Question exhales, cracks his knuckles then his fingers then his neck, and turns to the steel table. He walks over, purposefully looming above the girl, and tosses one of his many folders of papers on the corner of the table.

Despite the cool exterior, you can hear his rapid heartbeat — he’s either excited or anxious, possibly even both.

Seeming to sense the new serious air, the girl shuffles all her empty dishes over to the far side of the table and folds her hands across the tabletop. Question pulls the chair out opposite of her and flips it around before he takes a seat; you take a moment to lean against the wall by the door.

“Let’s start with introductions.” Question says, as his voice falls back into a rhythm that almost feels practiced. “I’m the Question.”

“Well, I could’ve guessed that! Both of them said your name a couple of times.” She points out with a half-smile. “Also, for someone whose _name_ is Question it doesn't seem like you answer them very much.” The girl leans forward across the table. “Is it a mask? Or some kind of holographic technology that makes it _look_ like there isn't anything there, but if someone touched it. . .?”

She makes a move to check to see if her theory's right, but before she can Question swats away her outreached hand. “That isn't important. Now, your name please. I would rather not have to convince you like I did the other.”

Surprisingly, she doesn’t ask just who ‘the other’ is, and instead sends a razor sharp grin. “Jade Harley, the Witch of Space and overall badass at your service.” Question jerks back, but she doesn’t seem to notice, too busy sighing mournfully at her own bad luck. “Although, I guess I’m not the most _subtle_ badass, since I’ve already gotten myself caught.”

You can’t say you really understand the ‘Witch of Space’ segment of the introduction, but it’s easy to recognize the way that Question twitches — it’s just like what Bruce does when he _needs to know_ but is too proud to let himself appear eager. You almost smile to yourself. Detectives.

Question reaches forward, shuffles through some of the papers until he pulls out what looks to be a blank one. “Spell that for me.” He requests, and with a raised eyebrow Jade does.

From over his shoulder, you can see Question write each letter out with a sketch of the swirl on her robes put and an underlined _WITCH OF SPACE_ underneath it. Several question marks accompany the last phrase. After he’s finished with that, Question pulls out a second sheet of paper with what is clearly someone else’s handwriting on it. He skims the contents over a few times—which, from where you are, just appear to be a lot of other names with scribbles of different color crayons and doodles beside each—and looks back up.

He stares at Jade a long moment before he says, “You aren’t a troll.”

You blink. “What?”

Unlike both Kyle and John, it hadn’t been a top priority for you to catch back up with the other Justice League members’ case files and reports from the time you’d been off-world as soon as you stepped in the Watchtower door. There would be time for that once everything had settled back down, after all. Question’s Belle Reve report had become a slight exception, given that you thought it was possible it could pertain to the situation at hand.

The report itself was mostly bare, with little more than the a file on one Vriska Serket — the at the time unnamed alien who attacked Green Arrow and Black Canary in Star City. To be specific, she was a member of an alien species Question had simply recorded as ‘Troll’ with no related homeworld or planet and, from the attached photos, that entailed grayed-out skin and yellow eyes and colored horns. Ears and tail notwithstanding, Jade looks far more human then a ‘Troll’ would.

Jade seems to think the same and barks out a laugh. “Me? A _troll_?” She points at herself to accentuate her disbelief. “Who told you that garbage?”

Question nods and his hand flies across the first piece of paper, jotting down more notes from her comment. He doesn’t look at the paper as he writes, however, glancing over his shoulder towards you. “Has she always had the dog appendages?” He asks.

“Since we found her twelve galaxies out from Oa, yes.” You tell him.

With another cursory skim of his second paper, he turns his attention back to Jade. “Where were you born?”

Jade takes a moment to think over her answer before she responds. “An island.”

“How old are you?”

“Uhm. Let’s go with. . .sixteen?”

Question taps his pen against the table. “Could you translate that into ‘sweeps’ for me?”

“Between seven and eight, I think.”

Question nods, scribbling some more notes down. “Blood color?”

She giggles into her hand at that one. “Red, just like you have, and by that I don’t mean rustblood.” Jade says. “I told you that I’m not a troll.”

The rapid fire pace stalls after that, and Question seems to start reading back over the pieces of paper like each is a puzzle piece he just can’t find the correct location for. The room goes quiet. Jade busies herself with better stacking her dishes to take up less of the table.

“You say you aren’t a troll, and I believe that.” He finally says, after almost an entire minute of silence. “You also seem to insinuate that you’re a human, but every person in this room knows that would be a lie. Humans can’t breathe in space, teleport matter, and most don’t have canine additives. At best you’re an incredibly powerful metahuman, while at worst you’re a liar.”

“Well—” Jade stops herself and redirects her eyes down to her lap. For a moment her face twists in thought, until finally she looks up and raises her hand as if she’s a student in the classroom. “Permission to ask a question, Mister Question!” She requests.

You frown and Question lowers his pen. He watches her for a few seconds. “Granted.”

Jade nods to herself. “Okay, so, I get that this is an official interrogation for information and all, but if Earth is what I think it’s like then there’s still a Constitution and Bill of Rights and the Amendments in America.” She pauses, as if to give Question time to disagree, and when he doesn’t she continues. “This is an American organization of superpowered people, right?” Jade looks at your outfit, at the colors of it.

You debate the easiest way to explain. “Although the majority of our human members are legally American citizens, the Justice League is technically under the United Nations.”

“Then that should mean the laws are the same — at least, it’s close enough.” Jade grins, then promptly starts to talk to herself. “Grandpa was an American citizen before I was born, even if we technically never lived in the US, and Jake said that his Grandma was one too, so there has to be _one_ version of me that counts. Maybe even both! And if this is pretty much an American space station. . .”

Question clicks his pen a couple times, the repetitive sound pulling Jade’s attention back over. “I assume that you’re going somewhere with all of this?”

“Of course!” Jade nods. “I’ve decided to plead the fifth!”

“Plead the fifth.” Question repeats, monotone.

Jade nods, completely serious. “If this is an official interrogation for a crime I may or may not have committed, then I’m calling on the Fifth Amendment and my Miranda Rights.” Her smile turns somewhat guilty but she holds eye contact. “Sorry, Mister Question, but you won’t get anything out of me.”

 

 

It’s almost two hours later when you’re following Question outside of the interrogation room, his multitude of thumb drives tucked into his pockets and manilla folders properly arranged in the crook of his arm. He stalks his way down the hallway without a moment’s hesitation, a frustrated mutter of a data room left in his wake.

“Goodbye, Mister Question!” Jade calls out through the still-open door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help!”

He doesn’t respond, and you sigh.

True to his word, Kyle kept right outside the door for the duration of the interrogation. He also, however, seems to have fallen asleep. You sigh again.

“Green Lantern.” You nudge his shoulder and Kyle’s eyes snap open. “We’re finished. Jade’s all yours.”

Kyle holds back a yawn, hauling himself out of his chair construct and stretching out his back. “So her name’s Jade, huh? Sounds a little less,” A yawn breaks through and he stifles it as best he can. “A little less, I don’t know, foreign than I expected.”

Jade snorts. “Rude!”

You hold a hand up in her direction, and she settles back down into her chair. All three of your know it isn’t because she’s intimidated. “We’ll be just a moment.” With another swipe of your palm, the door to the room slides closed. “She’s refused to talk on the grounds of the Fifth Amendment. Most of what we got was vague at best.”

“The _what_? Is that even allowed?”

“She’s never lived in the US, doesn’t have any documentation to prove that she’s related to anyone who has, and the first known recording of her existence is in the depths of space but. . .” You frown. “Jade is still entitled to her rights. We can’t legally force her to answer questions that she doesn’t want to.”

Kyle blinks in surprise. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a villain actually _using_ those before.” He scratches the back of his neck.

“It’s not that it matters much what she is or isn’t. Until she decides to cooperate, Question’s decided to relocate her to Belle Reve in a few days time. He seems to think that she might want to talk a little more if she’s around a familiar face.”

“Great.” He scowls at the mere mention of Question’s name, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall with a thud. “At this rate, that nutjob will never give her up to take back to Oa.”

“Hopefully this won’t take too much longer.” You agree. “Until then, I can trust you to make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble, right?”

Kyle nods. “Yeah. I can handle that.”

You open your mouth to thank him for his help before you hear the sound of your personal cell phone—safely tucked away in your private room in the Watchtower—several hallways from the interrogation wing. You wouldn’t normally notice it but the ringtone catches your attention, and not in a good way.

After all, Conner only privately messages you when it’s an emergency with Ma and Pa.

You don’t waste time to say goodbye to Kyle and bolt down what you know to be the fastest path to the dormitories. Even with the obstacle of several other League members, you keep your breakneck speed until you’ve reached your door. It slides open with a hastily punched in passcode.

The phone is left on the room’s pre-provided desk along with all the other personal items you’d had with you all those weeks ago when the mission to capture Jade had started. You unlock it with quick fingers and pull up Conner’s messages, a weight in your stomach.

All the message reads is Come home ASAP and you aren’t sure whether to be relieved or even more concerned.

 

* * *

 

Your full name is Richard Grayson, but you generally prefer Dick Grayson. You were the VERY FIRST ROBIN, SIDEKICK TO BATMAN, but you quit that persona when you were eighteen to be NIGHTWING, the resident hero of BLÜDHAVEN in New York State. Despite your busy life as a VIGILANTE, POLICE OFFICER, and member of the JUSTICE LEAGUE, you still manage to find time for your BEST FRIEND AND BOYFRIEND WALLY WEST, aka THE THIRD FLASH. You’ve been a more preoccupied than usual though, what with the DISAPPEARANCE OF YOUR LITTLE BROTHER DAMIAN WAYNE, so you haven’t talked to Wally in a while.

For once, Gotham is lovely.

You lean against the windowsill of your permanent bedroom in Wayne Manor and enjoy the warmth of the sun on this rare sunny day in Gotham. The window is open, a sure sign that a certain someone has been here recently, and the gentle breeze carries the scent of whatever is inside the white desert box sitting waiting for you. In addition, you spot a large thermos of milk sitting on your nightstand. You open the box and can’t hold back a smile when you see what’s inside.

It isn’t like there was any doubt in your mind _who_ had left this for you, but confirmation was always nice. A special someone going out of their way to do something this sweet isn’t something you ever expected to have, but in moments like these you wouldn’t trade it for the world. You pull out your phone and hit _3_ on speed dial.

The phone goes on for four full rings before it’s answered, which is a bit odd, but finally he picks up. “Hey babe,” Wally greets immediately, sounding out of breath. “What—What’s up?”

You raise an eyebrow, although the action is entirely unseen by your favorite speedster. “It’s been awhile since I last called, and I wanted to thank you for the papanash. Did you run all the way to Romania for these? They look homemade, and I know you can’t cook for shit.” You tease, picking one up and taking a bite. The cow cheese mixes deliciously with the blueberry jam and powdered sugar, all encased in crunchy brown dough that makes your sweettooth sing in joy. Dessert that reminds you of you parents is exactly what you didn’t know you needed, especially after the month you’ve had. Damian’s disappearance has been weighing on everyone, especially since you’ve made all of zero headway in finding him.

Wally makes an offended noise, but it’s half-hearted. “I’ve managed to keep myself alive without driving myself _too_ broke buying take-out. Hell, I’ve even cooked a romantic dinner for you before — admittedly with a little help from Alfred and Megan, but it was damn good. I bet I could make any crazy European dessert you threw at me without it being _entirely_ awful.”

“That’s only because speedsters can and will eat anything. You like Ollie’s chili, for heaven’s sake.” You counter, closing your eyes as you enjoy the peace of the moment. You haven’t had a break in what feels like forever.

“Hold up, I’m not the only one — Batman likes it too!” Wally argues, refusing to be beaten. Then his voice goes softer. “Speaking of Ollie, have you heard anything about him from Roy or Dinah? Surely he’s out of the League hospital by now.”

You smile falters into a frown. “You haven’t been keeping up?” You ask. It’s been almost two weeks since that alien—Vriska Serket, you believe her name is—fought Black Canary and Green Arrow and put the later in the hospital. Ollie’s insisted to everyone that asks that it was an accident, but your gut tells you different. Ollie’s too experienced to be clumsy like that; Vriska _must_ have been involved somehow.

Still, Wally not keeping up with the Arrows, especially when one of them was hurt? Completely out of character. Roy and Wally are too close for him to ignore Ollie being hurt.

Wally gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Sorry hun, but I’ve been kinda busy over here the last few weeks. You’ve read about the wireless blackout going on here recently, right? I can't get in touch with anyone! Nothing’s been working here in Central — I had to run out of the city just to answer your call when I saw your name pop up. Same goes for getting to the Watchtower, since Zeta isn’t working here either. All my villains have decided to take the opportunity to be bigger pains in my ass than usual because of it, not to mention some other things have popped up that I’ve been trying to deal with. Even with superspeed, I haven't really found the time to drop by unannounced to check up on him.”

So _that_ explained why Wally’d been slow to respond. You relax a bit. “Right, sorry. Between Damian and Jason, and now this Honk guy, I haven’t had time to read much news.” You say. “But yeah, I checked in on Ollie last week. He got released from the Watchtower infirmary a few days ago, so he’s now he’s causing trouble back at home. Roy and Artemis are keeping up Star City while Dinah keeps him trapped in bed — the guy wants to try to help despite being an archer with two broken arms.”

Wally gives a quiet laugh, but it dies off quickly. “I guess Canary’s got her hands full, but hey, that’s nothing new.” He says quietly.

You both sit there quiet for a moment. A fellow hero getting hurt so badly—especially one you used to look up to as a kid, and still respect to this day—is always jolting. Being reminded of your mortality is never a comfortable thing. In this business death is always there, waiting at a moment’s notice to grab any hero who dared make a mistake, and it had nearly gotten Ollie. Death was the whole reason Wally was the Flash right now instead of Barry. And with Damian missing, maybe even dead. . .

You wonder if the same thoughts are haunting Wally too. Knowing him, they probably are.

“Stop that. I can hear you starting to brood over there babe, and despite your naturally handsome face it’s not a good look on you.”

You jolt a bit, Wally’s voice loud in your ear, and come back to yourself. With a sigh you smile, eating the last bite of your neglected papanash. “I’m not brooding.” You say unconvincingly.

Wally doesn’t believe a word of it. “Don’t think you can lie to me Dick Grayson, I’ve been your best friend for over a decade and you boyfriend for years; I know you better than anyone, and in particular I know what being around Batman and his depressing brooding does to you these days. Brooding is contagious, especially in the Batfamily! Like mono!” He insists. You snicker, mood lifted, but relent. Instead, a wonderful idea pops into your head.

“Since I'm apparently being so gloomy, are you going to come over here and cheer me up?” You ask, voice turning coy. “This dessert is sweet and all, but I’d prefer something more _substantial_ to sink my teeth into.”

You hear a low whistle from Wally, followed by a pleased hum. You can imagine a familiar smile curling around his lips as the insinuation sets in, and a matching one grows on yours. This is the first time you’ve been free in a month, and it would be a shame to waste such a nice day apart from your favorite speedster. Alfred has already all but demanded Bruce give you a break, so you won’t be missed for at least a couple of hours.

There’s a noise on the other end of the phone, like a cat meowing in protest, and Wally sputters, clearly struggling with something. You blink.

“Wally?” You question.

“Sorry babe—stop that, I’m not going to—it’s only—oh _shit_ —” Wally cuts off unexpectedly, the phone crackling as you lose service with him almost entirely. You straighten in alarm.

“Wally?” You ask again, panic starting to rise. The birds chirping out in the Wayne Manor lawns try to distract you, remind you of this oddly beautiful day, but in this moment they only remind you how far away you are from Wally. If something happened to him and you couldn’t get there fast enough—

“I’m fine!” Wally yells, his voice cutting back in as the phone service reconnects. “Dick, baby bird, _hey_ , I’m here.” He sounds out of breath again, and now that you’re listening you definitely hear the disgruntled growling of some animal, probably a feline. You wonder if he’s reassuring you or himself.

“Is everything okay?” You ask. “Wally, what’s going on over there?”

“Um,” Wally says, eloquent as ever. You want to be fond, but there’s no time for that. Something’s clearly up.

“Wally.” You say sternly. “I’m serious, is everything okay? You cut out there for a minute.”

“It’s just— _Jesus_ , watch the claws—my cat.” He says, and there’s a noise like he’s hushing said cat.

You frown. “That’s...new. When did you get a cat?” You ask a bit hesitantly, because this is all news to you. Wally’s never implied to you that he wanted a pet. “I always saw you as more of a dog person anyway.”

“Babe, you know I’m 100 percent a bird person.” Wally offers flirtatiously. You wait patiently for him to continue, and he huffs. “C’mon, that was a good one!”

You shrug. “Yeah, kind of. Still waiting for that explanation though.”

Wally grumbles, then sighs. “Yeah yeah, I know.” He says. “Look, it just kinda happened one day, like two weeks ago. I was on patrol at night, going to take care of robbery, but instead of a burglar I found, well, these two cats instead. They weren’t Catwoman’s, and anyway I don’t think Catwoman would bother breaking into a recently-closed pet store in Central City. They looked like...like, uh, pets for sale that’d been left behind, and I didn’t want to drop them off at a shelter. So I took ‘em home.”

“You adopted not just one, but _two_ cats, and you didn’t tell me?” You say, incredulous. You don’t want to be hurt, and for the most part you aren’t, but some small part of you from when you were a kid and you both promised to tell each other everything winces in pain. You try to keep it out of your voice.

Wally goes silent at that, and you suspect he gets the message anyway. Even hundred miles away he can read you like a book.

“Dick, you know I don’t keep secrets from you.” He says, earnest and utterly serious. “You’ve been busy with important stuff — I know Jason's always been difficult for Batman to deal with, for _all_ of you to deal with, and Damian being missing for so long is tearing you apart because I know you love that little demon to death. I wasn’t going to demand your attention and bother you with this little thing that honestly doesn’t matter. They’re just cats. Nothing more.”

 _Wally was just looking out for you._ Something in your chest melts, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Suddenly the day seems brighter, the papanash a little sweeter. “Thanks, Wally. I love you too.” You say, sincerely thankful.

Wally pauses on the other end of the line, which is weird for him. Usually he follows up most of his serious statements with some cheesy line, something to lighten up the mood, break the tension. But the mood hasn’t lightened — if anything, it feels even heavier now.

“Dick, actually, I have to tell you something.” He says, voice suddenly urgent. “Look, I should’ve told someone earlier, but I thought keeping it a secret was a good idea, and clearly it’s not. Roy forwarded me the report of what happened to Ollie last week and after reading it I went to talk to Ollie in person. He said—”

It’s then the line cuts out in a blitz of static, drowning out Wally entirely. You jerk the phone away from your head to keep the deafening noise away from your ears, but it’s too late. You ears are ringing and not a word of whatever Wally is saying is discernible out of the white noise. A moment later the phone gives a long beep and the call ends entirely.

You stare at your phone for a long time before trying to call Wally back, your mind going into overdrive as you wonder what in the world he was going to say. The call doesn’t connect. 


	13. Flash: Be Introduced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ma harrumphs. “In case you forgot, Clark, your Father and I spent eighteen years raising a dangerous alien without any silly _Justice League protection_.” She pointedly remarks. 
> 
> You flush. “ _Ma _! This is different!”__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just get straight to the excuses, shall we?
> 
> Over Christmas Break neither my sister or I had much time to write between all the family bonding and general Christmas-ing that was going on, but on top of that my laptop slid off a chair and broke. 
> 
> Now, we didn't lose any files or documents—everything I do is on Google Docs for this exact reason—but it did set this chapter back far more than it would have been otherwise. All the responses we try to give to commenters have been slower too, mostly because I've been trying to type them up from my phone — my phone which _really_ doesn't like Ao3. Sorry if no one's been able to respond to something specifically, both of us are trying our best to work around this whole debacle.
> 
> Until I can get a new laptop I have to declare this fic on a mild **Semi-Hiatus**. That doesn't mean I won't post for this story at all anymore, just that the solid schedule is sort of out the window for the foreseeable future. Even _if_ I'm able to get a new laptop soon, Cutthroat is going to leave the US soon to study abroad, so we'll still be slowed down.
> 
> I hope this isn't too much of a bummer for everyone. We'll do our best to keep this fic as on track as possible, but everything probably won't settle back down until July when Cutthroat gets back. Thanks for bearing with us!  
> — Illmerica  
> 

Your name is Wallace West but, because Wallace might just be one of the worst names on the face of the Earth, you go by WALLY WEST. You’re one of the FASTEST MEN ALIVE, right behind your deceased UNCLE BARRY. Back when you had originally gotten your powers, you had been his sidekick, KID FLASH, but ever since he passed away you’ve taken up the mantel as the FLASH, the PROTECTOR OF KEYSTONE AND CENTRAL CITY. It isn’t easy trying to take his place in the JUSTICE LEAGUE and it’s even harder leaving yours in YOUNG JUSTICE, but there are plenty of people you know you can always fall back on. Like, for example, your BELOVED BOYFRIEND DICK GRAYSON.

“—that he fought a grey alien like the one currently living with me _right_ _now!_ ” 

Your sentence rushed together with superspeed by the end, blurred by your desperate attempt to get it all out before the call ended. You hope against all hope that Dick heard you, but the screen of your phone mocks you with a bright and bold _Signal Lost_. 

Pretty soon, you think you're going to start screaming in frustration and then probably just never stop.

“Did you lose signal again, Wally?” Asks the sweet, innocent (and secretly evil) voice that, at this point, haunts both your dreams and nightmares. 

You toss a glare at Nepeta, and then at Roxy—the prior's claws still digging into your shoulder and back to keep on, while the latter's arms stay looped around your neck in a chokehold to keep up the piggyback ride—for good measure. After all, _she_ was the one who let her powers block the call.

Roxy snickers. “And just when things were getting heated too. What an awful boo-thang you are, leaving your number one main squeeze all high and dry like that. You should feel ashamed, Wal-Wes.”

You groan in frustration as the two teenagers who have managed to completely take over your life for the past two weeks giggle to one another.

Dick’s right. You _are_ a dog person.

Although it definitely wasn't 100% the truth, the story that you had made up about your two “cats” wasn't 100% false either. You had been given the pleasure of meeting the girls on a night patrol, catching them in their attempts of busting into a pet store. At first, you'd assumed they were a couple of harmless metahuman kids that had just been taking advantage of the Great Blackout to cause some havoc — like the rest of the damn city seemed determined to do.

You had been wrong. So,  _so very_ wrong.

Haha, so yeah. Turns out Nepeta is an alien from Alternia, a planet that literally exploded after it was pelted with too many meteors, while Roxy is a human with superpowers—but, somehow, not a metahuman because they're, _somehow_ , different—and both of them were playing some kind of global game of tag with a bunch of other aliens and superpowered humans. 

The only other thing either of the girls bothered to tell you was that Roxy was most definitely at fault for the Great Blackout because, quote, “my Void powers, and it's Void with a capital V, like to really screw up anything that might find me — it's just a Void thing, trust me”, unquote, and that definitely explains things! It explains _so many things_! 

Just none of the important ones, like how to fix the Blackout or how to get rid of the Blackout or how to stop the Blackout, or just generally anything that actually pertained to the Blackout. But, other than all that, _so many things_!

Oh, and you'd offered to let them live with you for however long they needed. That was also a thing that happened.

You would say that it was against your better judgment but, if you're honest, it's not even that much better. The regular stuff can fuck you over just as well.

“At least he heard the first part.” You tell yourself. “Dick’s smart. He’ll be able to tell something’s up.”

Nepeta pouts. “You were trying to give us away!” She complains.

Roxy snorts. “Not that it was very successful.” 

The temptation to stick out your tongue is strong, but ultimately ignored. “You know, I’ve carried Kryptonians lighter than you two.” You say instead, giving your shoulder a sharp shake. “Care to get off me? I have no idea how either of you held on while I ran 200 mph to get out of Keystone before the call failed, let alone how you _both_  did it, but this really isn't all that comfortable.”

Nepeta's claws retract back out from where they’re digging into your the skin of your shoulder— _ouch_ —and leaps onto the ground, landing on all fours before straightening back up. Roxy just laughs and loosens her stranglehold on your neck until she's slid down to her feet.

“Idk, Wal-Wes. I think the real mystery here is how you landed someone like _that._  This “Dick” sounds like a total knock-out, and that's just over the phone! I mean, you've got those runner’s thighs and all, but _damn son._ ” Roxy wolf-whistles, and you go bright red.

Nepeta hums in thought. “Yeah, I guess I see your point.” She agrees, like you aren't literally _right there_ , and it sends you sputtering. “Wally’s super nice though, and can be really funny in a lame way and he doesn't mind roleplaying! He must have charmed his matesprit with all of that! No one can resist a matesprit that roleplays with them!”

Roxy raises a perfect eyebrow. “So, basically, he’s funny?”

“Yeah!”

“Hm. . . That's some Roger and Jessica Rabbit logic right there.” Roxy nods. “You know, I can see that.”

“ _Um_ , can we _please_ not talk about me and Dick?” You plead. You haven’t had to suffer through so many backward compliments about your romantic prowess since the first time you ran crying to Megan and Artemis to help plan your One Year Anniversary with Dick.

Nepeta puffs out her cheeks, giving you the type of scowl that only an angry kitten could pull off. “Maybe we would if you hadn’t kept him a secret from us! I’ve been trying to figure out the best purrson to ship you with fur weeks Wally, _weeks_ , and only  _now_ you tell me you have a matesprit! You lied to me about _shipping_ , Wally! There’s nothing worse than that!”

“I think lying to my longtime boyfriend about the alien and her gal pal living in my house is a little worse! Especially since another alien just like mine just so happened to make my good friend's adopted Dad fall off a building with her voodoo space magic.” You counter, more than a little bitterness peaking through your voice. 

Nepeta crosses her arms, unconvinced.

Roxy rolls her eyes. “Vriska’s not a Space player, she’s a Light player. C'mon, you're smart Wal-Wes, get it right.”

“Fine, her voodoo _light_ magic then!” You could care less about the specifics — someone important to you still got hurt. “Look, it doesn't matter. I’m sorry, but I have to turn you both into the League. They'll know what to do with you two, or at least have more of an idea than I do, because to be perfectly honest I have absolutely no idea what to do with either of you! I’m flying blind here, and I’d rather not let something else bad happen if I can stop it.”

Roxy’s smirk slowly turns into a frown. She looks at you quizzically. “Slow down a second now Speedy Gonzalez. Just what do you mean _exactly_?”

You sigh. You really don’t wanna do this while standing out in forest next to an interstate outside Central City’s city limits while still in your pajamas, but you had to tell the girls sometime. Still, you can at least stall for a few minutes. “Here, let me run us home.  _Then_ I’ll explain.”

Before either can protest, you scoop them both up and dart at a few hundred miles an hour back to your house. It was once Uncle Barry’s place, a modest suburban two-story paid for entirely in a rather sneaky move by Batman—it was an early birthday gift that had sent Uncle Barry into a tizzy at the time, but nowadays you know that doing nice things behind your back was just how the Batfamily showed they cared—that he left to you in his will, so you’ve been living here since he died. It’s honestly a good thing the place is too big for one person because if you lived in a one bedroom apartment like you did years ago then there’d be no way you could fit in two unexpected teenage girls with you.

You drop Roxy and Nepeta on the couch with enough care that they don’t go bouncing off, then fall into pacing just a bit faster than the average human speed right in front of them; you don’t want to see Nepeta give you that sad kicked kitten face, but you know it’s coming.

“Look,” You start again, before either can protest, “I may not be the most competent guy around when it comes to common sense—hell, I could think of about dozen people who could give enough examples of me screwing up to write a book about it—but I’m not so oblivious as to not notice that I am _way_ out of my depth here. I literally have no idea what to do with you two besides keeping you guys busy by let you plow through my kung fu DVD collection and eat all my ice cream!” You exclaim.

Nepeta gasps. “I furgot, we need to buy more Rocky Road!”

Roxy grumbles under her breath, sinking into the couch cushions. “Yeah babe, ‘cause you ate it all and didn’t leave any for me.”

You groan in frustration. Not only are they ignoring absolutely _everything_ you’re saying — your poor snack stash! “C’mon guys, be a _little_ serious about this, please? I don’t wanna make you two feel like I’m kicking you out, but I can’t keep a dangerous alien and metahuman in my house when the League has a literal warrant out for you.” You say with a pained sigh. “I’m _supposed_ to be responsible about these kinds of things.”

What you’re saying seems to finally sink in, at least for Nepeta, because tears start to fill her eyes and — oh dammit, it’s the kicked kitten face. You knew this would happen. “You...you don’t want us around anymore?” She whimpers, big green eyes glistening. You wince, and her voice grows more panicked. “But, but _Wally_ , you puromised! You puromised we could stay here and be friends and you would take us out superheroing! We were gonna spend all day together now that it’s the weekend and have fun! Turning us in and making us lose the game so you can go hang out with your matesprit isn’t any fun!” She complained.

You rub your still-stinging arm. “You made that pretty clear the first time.” You mutter.

Roxy pats Nepeta’s shoulder consolingly as the smaller girl rubs at her teary eyes. “‘ey now Nep, don’t get all upset. Sure, Wally’s being a butt right now, but he can’t go through with any of it. We’re gonna have a wonderful day playing superhero, just like we planned, and then we’ll come home to eat pizza for dinner and roleplay Vriska being locked up in super prison. That sound good?” Roxy asks.

You gape at her. “I’m not being a butt!” You protest. “I’m super chill! I’m so chill that Captain Cold is hot in comparison!” You pause. “Don’t take that the wrong way.”

“Really?” Nepeta says, looking up at you with a hopeful smile. She looks between you and Roxy. “Can the pizza have anchovies and tuna on it?”

You and Roxy simultaneously shudder, because _why_ would anyone do that to pizza, but before you can remind her that you aren’t exactly made of money, Roxy says, “I think we can find a pizza place that will do that,” and it’s all over.

“Yay!” Nepeta cheers, and lunges at you, nearly knocking you over as she hugs you. She’s a tiny thing, barely over five foot two, but _man_ does she pack a punch.

“Thank you Wally, thank you! We’re gonna have so much fun — I’ve always wanted to be a superhero!” She cheers happily. There’re no tears in sight anymore.

Dammit, tricked by the crocodile tears _again_.

“I’m not putting anchovies on the entire pizza,” You warn her, which is about when you realize that Roxy just took over your intervention and subtly steamrolled you into agreeing to not do the thing you _just_ said you were going to do. “Hey, wait!”

“Too late, you already agreed!” Nepeta sing-songs, Roxy smirking victoriously behind her. You groan in horror and mentally bemoan ever getting into this mess in the first place, something that you’ve been doing with surprising frequency lately. These girls will be the death of you.

“I don’t even know if you two can fight.” You try to argue, petting Nepeta behind the horns to try to calm her excitement. Might as well put up a token of a protest.

Roxy puts of her fists like she’s gearing up to fight for an MMA title. It’s somewhat comical coming from the skinny white girl who begged you for a pair cat earmuffs while out shopping yesterday. “Oh, we can fight alright. These cartoony mooks’ll be nothing compared to the old ugly fish bish. Don’t worry your pretty little redhead about us, Wally.” Roxy assures you.

Nepeta purrs. She gives you an excited grin. “She’s right — I’m a seasoned purredator! Those pesky bad guys of yours will be no match for my claws of fury!”

You take a moment to look between the tiny adorable alien and the entirely nonthreatening teenage girl standing in front of you swearing up and down that they can take on criminals such as Mirror Master, Captain Cold, and Captain Boomerang with no problems.

Pfff. Yeah _right_.

“Whatever you guys say,” You remark offhandedly, already gearing up to play protective babysitter for a few hours. You’re not the most experienced at it, having never had a protegee yourself, but how hard can it be? “We’ll see how it goes, but the second one of you says to stop we’re done.”

 

You’re pretty sure that if Dick were here right now he would be laughing at you.

“Nepeta, _please_ , stop! You can’t _skewer_ the criminals!” You yell for the what feels like the twentieth time, but is probably only the eighth. You skid to a stop. “They’re thugs, not field mice!”

The soon-to-be-skewered store robber all but runs into Roxy’s fist in his attempts to avoid said skewering, apparently not having been able to see her standing directly in front of him. He goes down like a sack of rocks at that, his gun clattering to the floor, and Nepeta pouts childishly at her friend.

“He was mine!” She complains.

Roxy winks at her. “Sorry babe.”

Another thug pops out from behind a jewelry case and sends a spatter of gunfire at the two girls — before either can even start moving to try to dodge you bolt over, the world slowing down to a standstill around you, and pluck the unmoving bullets out the air. They give little metallic clinks when you drop them to the floor as the world speeds up again, and you grin as the thug’s eyes go wide behind the ski mask.

“Dibs!” Nepeta calls unexpectedly, and pounces.

“Oh shit!” You shout, frantically twisting to try to grab her mid-air before she accidentally _murders someone_ , but you miss her by inches and with a battle cry she tackles the guy out of sight. There’s a series of shouts, followed by a cry of pain, and a liquid splatters up the wall — Jesus Christ is that _blood_?!

“Woo girl, get him!” Roxy cheers, fist-pumping the air.

You feel yourself pale underneath the mask. “N- _No_ , Nepeta, do not ‘get him’!” You sputter, and are you hyperventilating? You’re almost positive you’re hyperventilating. “ _Nepeta_!”

You blur over there in a whirlwind, Roxy grabbing the hood of her outfit as it flies up from the gust of wind. When you stop it takes a few milliseconds longer than usual to understand what the hell you’re currently looking at, because some _very_ frantic part of you was sure it was going to be wholesale murder at the hands of the tiny adorable alien cat girl you’re spent the last few weeks letting sleep on your couch, so you’re at least glad it’s not that.

Nepeta looks up and grins at you, waving at you with her free hand at you. The claws of the glove have been retracted, so she doesn’t accidentally claw anything as she waves. “I got him.” She says happily, beaming. “And look Flash, I only stabbed him a little!”

All ninety pounds of alien is perched on the chest of the rather burly would-be jewel robber. The thug is blinking like he’s dizzy and gasping for breath, clearly out of it, but you can’t really blame him when he has a black eye and three foot-long claws impaling his shoulder and holding him in place. So _that’s_ what’d splattered blood all up the wall.

You breath a sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t the throat.

“Nepeta,” You sigh, exhausted, “Did you really have to stab him?”

Nepeta grins at you, flashing her _extremely_ sharp canines at you, and despite yourself you feel a cool trickle of fear go down your spine. “If you don’t stab them then they run away.” She reasons, staring you down very seriously. Then Nepeta gives a sweet giggle. “I don’t know why _you_ don’t have claws Flash — you could be the fastest kitty alive!” She enthuses.

You smile weakly. “I’m good.”

The thug groans and seems to come to, because his expression twists into a dazed snarl and he glares up at Nepeta. “I, ugh, can’t believe you stabbed me you little bitch.” He complains, trying to shove her off. “Now get off of me! Don’t think I won’t fuck you up you grey-skinned freak—”

Your eyes narrow. Before you can _personally_ shut him up, Roxy appears out of nowhere and kicks the bastard straight in the face. His nose gushes blood as he konks right back out.

“He was done.” Roxy comments. Nepeta throws her a thankful smile.

Police sirens sound, probably only a few blocks away by your estimate since you can hear them at all. Nepeta dislodges her claws from the robber’s shoulder, Roxy helping her to her feet. You take a moment to look over the place.

The guy Roxy took out is still on the ground, as are the three unconscious guys tied together with rope of queue barriers that you took care of earlier. There’s an unconscious guy on his stomach on a jewelry case—Roxy’s body slam on him earlier had been undeniably _awesome_ —and a mess of diamond necklaces, gemstone rings, and jewel-encrusted brooches are scattered on the floor from when you three had gotten here, completely forgotten in the chaos. The walls are decorated with bullet holes and there’s a metal chair with a dented leg thrown on the ground. You look back over at the girls — neither looks particularly hurt, or hell, even bruised, as they laugh together and congratulate each other.

The street-facing windows and the front door to the store are all glass, so you watch as a team of cops pull up next to the would-be jewelry thieves’ getaway car. You wave to some of the familiar faces as they get out.

“Right on time. Now you two, let’s bail.” You say, turning back to the girls.

Roxy huffs. “Oh c’mon Flashlight, we’ve only been out patrolling for two hours.” She pounds her fist into her palm, grinning. “I bet there’re still plenty of other suckers stirring up trouble out there that we can take down.”

“ _Yeah,_ no. Not happening.” You flatly. Both girls immediately flash you their best puppy-dog eyes, looking completely innocent in their matching blue and pink hooded costumes, but for once you stay strong and stare them down. The past few hours have been _way_ too trying for you succumb to their innocent facade now.

“I have been a superhero since I twelve years old — twelve! And never have I had a more stressful day on the job in my entire life!” You explode, throwing up your hands. You point to Nepeta. “You! And here I thought Nightwing’s demon of a little brother was bad with pointy things — those claws of yours put him to shame! You’re nearly butchered half of the guys we’ve fought today, even after I told you no killing!”

Roxy rolls her eyes, stepping up between you and Nepeta. “Oh c’mon Flashbang, Nep totally had—”

“And you!” You cut her off, pointing now to blonde. Roxy blinks back in surprise. “I told you both to stay within my sights then entire time and not go running off — but _noooo_. You’re worse about disappearing on me than Nightwing back when he was Robin!  I’ve nearly had a panic time every time I can’t find you in the middle of a fight, and my heart rate already goes twice as fast as everyone else’s! Between the two of you, I’ve just about gone crazy!”

You’re moments away from ripping your hair out, cowl be damned—these two kids could’ve gotten themselves killed and it would’ve been all your fault, what kind of responsible adult takes two teenage girls out superheroing for _fun_ , Uncle Barry would be so ashamed—as your two charges stare at you, speechless. You give a ragged laugh. Most stressful patrol _ever_.

“And another thing,” You start, ready to rant some more, when you hear a soft hiccup. You stop short, blinking, and really _look_ at the girls.

Nepeta’s wiping her claws clean and looking miserable. Roxy just looks plain startled.

Nepeta sniffles. “We scared you.” She whispers.

“Shit Flashmob,” Roxy mumbles, clearly distressed. She curses herself under her breath. “This — this was supposed to be fun, you know? Gog, we didn’t mean to— at least, I _thought_ we were all having a good time—but I guess we just left you in the dust to freak out instead. I’ve, uh, never seen you mom at us so much. Guess, we blew it, huh?” She tries to finish with a joke and a weak smile, something to make her words less serious, but you catch the sincerity of her apology anyway.

You sigh, all your anxiety leaving you in a rush. At least now you knew it wasn’t on purpose. “Admittedly, I’ve never been in charge of any kids in the field before. I don’t know how Batman does it. I’d keel over with a worry-induced stroke within a month, tops.” You say, reaching over and mussing Nepeta’s hair. She looks up at you warily, a hesitant hope in her eyes. “And don’t think I didn’t have a good time kiddos — just, try to not drive me crazy with worry next time, okay? I’m too young to be one of those obsessive helicopter moms.”

You smile at them to let them know all’s forgiven. Roxy snorts, looking relieved. She holds out a fist that you obediently fist bump.

Nepeta leaps into your arms, burying her face into your neck. “I’m so sorry!” She cries into you thankfully waterproof uniform.

Roxy cracks some joke about cradling cats, but you ignore her and console Nepeta who is, not for the first time today, holding onto you like a particularly good climbing tree.

Then someone clears their throat behind you.

You turn around to see Captain Frye with a few other officers milling around behind him, leading out some of the criminals your trio had knocked out. He’s an older man, nearly sixty and set to retire any year now, and was a family friend of your Uncle’s both in and out of the cape who hired your secret identity a few years back as a crime scene investigator. He also looks extremely awkward, and takes you a moment to realize why.

You mentally groan in horror. You literally just had a big emotional pow-wow with your two roommates in front of your _boss_ . While _in costume_. At a _crime scene_.

“Flash.” Captain Frye starts, and you try to appear like you’re a professional despite the crying alien girl hanging off your neck and mumbling apologies. You don’t think you succeed in the _slightest_ , but there’s really nothing you can do about it.

“Captain Frye!” You squeak, voice too loud. “Well look at that, you guys arrived right on time. Great! No silly blackout can keep the law down, eh? And here I was, totally expecting you to be right behind me and everything. _Totally_.” You give a horribly awkward laugh, grabbing Roxy by the shoulder and start to push her towards the door. Roxy raises an eyebrow at you, dragging her feet. You shoot her a warning look.

Captain Frye looks a bit constipated as you try to escape without bodily carrying the girls out of the jewelry store. “I...see.” He says. His gaze zeroes in on Roxy, then flicks up to Nepeta. “And who are your new...sidekicks?”

To be entirely honest you hadn’t even given any thought in giving Roxy and Nepeta code names — you’ve mostly been calling them by their first names, assuming it’s safe because Roxy never changes clothes out of her all-blue hooded dress and stockings despite your constant offers to buy her something and Nepeta would noticeably be an alien either way. There’s no disguising them in general, and since no one knows that Wally West has anyone living with him right now, you just haven't bothered being more subtle than necessary while being the Flash.

You start mentally panicking, struggling to not blurt out something stupid enough to make Nepeta claw you in retaliation, when Roxy takes care of it for you.

“Us?” She cuts in smoothly. She throws the Captain a sly smirk. “Why, I’m Miss Lalovely, and this is my gorgeous partner Catnip.”

“I prefur to be called The Purr-edator!” Nepeta corrects, yelling over your shoulder.

You can feel Captain Frye staring incredulously at you as you leave, but thankfully he doesn’t try and trap you there to talk about the attempted jewelry theft any longer. Once you’re outside you give the curious onlooking officers a quick salute, signal to Roxy who jumps onto your back for another round of the world’s fastest piggyback ride as Nepeta stays clinging to your front, and speed home.

It was about time for pizza anyway. With anchovies on a third of it too, just like you promised.

 

* * *

 

FROM : Justice League <officialjusticeleague@gmail.com>  
TO : <Members-Active-Group>, <Members-Inactive-Group>, <Associations-YoungJustice>, <Associations-TeenTitans>

Alert to All Members,

At the request of Justice League member The Question — Status: Active, designation number 45 — an official warrant has been assigned for the immediate capture and containment of any and all members of an undocumented alien species. An unknown number of this species’ members are suspected to have landed on Earth despite the Watchtower’s extensive sensor system, and the official Justice League mandated investigation of this possibility has been put under The Question’s jurisdiction. All known and recorded information is provided below.

 

Species Name: Troll

Original Homeworld: Unknown

Species’ Population: Unknown but suspected endangered, CR level

Physical Features:  

> — Humanoid body structure
> 
> — Gray skin, resilient to damage but not impenetrable
> 
> — Yellow sclera with possible variation in iris color
> 
> — Prominent horns protruded from skull, striped from darker orange tones at the base to mid yellow at the tip
> 
> — Fangs and claws, reminiscent to that of felines
> 
> — Blood varies in color, from the top to the bottom of the known color spectrum

Known Abilities:   

> — Superhuman Physiology
> 
>   * Enhanced strength
>   * Enhanced durability
>   * Enhanced endurance
> 

> 
> — Flight following a transformation/the growth of insect-like wings
> 
> — Mental Manipulation ranging to complete Mind Control
> 
> — Sleep Inducement 
> 
> — Dreamscaping through ‘Dream Bubbles’
> 
> — Revival from Death

 

The full extent of these Trolls’ abilities is unknown and untested, and, as such, they should be confronted with the utmost level of caution. No known casualties have to be attributed to Trolls, but some have been shown to act aggressively when approached. Despite this, excessive force is not to be used and combat should be seen as the last option in all cases. Cooperation is ideal. Attempt to reason with and or convince a Troll to give themselves over to Justice League authority before any further action.

Additionally, it should be known that there is evidence of what appears to be communication, if not collaboration, between at least eight metahumans and the earth-bound Trolls. If any metahumans are discovered in ranks with a Troll upon capture, they are to be taken into custody in as well.

One metahuman has already been apprehended and interrogated for any useful information — a teenage girl (see A2) who displays teleportation over, so far, unlimited distances, survival in space without the assistance of a protective suit, and has both a canine’s tail and ears. It is unknown at the moment whether the other metahumans possess similar qualities as she does, but be prepared for either option. Seven other unknown metahumans are likely to be associated with Trolls. Their possible names and corresponding symbols are listed below.

John Egbert [A1], Jade Harley [A2], Dave Strider [A3], Rose Lalonde [A4]

Jane Crocker [B1], Jake English [B2], Dirk Strider [B3], Roxy Lalonde [B4]

A1    A2  A3    A4

B1    B2  B3    B4

It’s requested any heroes with information on the whereabouts of either the trolls or listed metahumans, as well as any members interested in assisting the investigation, immediately contact The Question’s personal League account. 

— Mr. Terrific  
Head of Justice League Communications, The Monitor

 

* * *

 

Superman ==> Check on Ma and Pa

With the blackout in Central and Keystone, the closest Zeta Beams to Smallville isn’t operational. It’s inconvenient and adds a whole nine seconds to the flight, but you try your best to push that frustration as far out of your mind as possible.

Conner’s message had been vague at best, ominous at worst. You have no idea what you’re flying into so it's best to keep a level head.

The first thing you notice when the Kent Farm comes into view is a decided lack of carnage. For the most part, any fight that includes either Conner or yourself ends with grievous amounts damage to other people’s private property—though it’s never on purpose, of course—and from what you can see the farm is all but untouched. Even the crop fields furthest from the house don’t look damaged, just empty from the last harvest.

So the threat isn’t physical then.

That still leaves far too many options for your comfort.

You touch down just behind the barn, cautious of a surprise attack, and listen inside for heartbeats. The barn’s empty aside from what you know to be Ma and Pa’s six cows, but the same can’t be said for the house.

You count off four different heartbeats from the kitchen — one heart too many.

Ma and Pa sound like any human their age, and you recognize the slightly stalled heart rate that Conner has from your half of the DNA. The third is different, faster and almost erratic. If you didn’t know any better, you would have assumed it was the intruder who was in danger.

You speed up to the kitchen’s door, thankful the curtains are drawn over all the windows. A uniform like yours isn’t the best suited for stealth, as Bruce often loves to point out, but if someone’s managed to subdue Superboy and take your parents hostage then you would gladly take any advantages you could get to finish this fight before the intruder can threaten them any further.

With another listen inside, you note that there’s little conversation, just the occasional hum or mumble of thanks. The clink of plates and forks and glasses is almost out of place.

In fact, it almost sounds like they’re. . .they’re _eating_?

What?

Even with your Ma’s bad habit of coddling anyone and everyone she meets, the woman who raised you surely has more than enough common sense not to cook a nice meal for an active threat on her life.

All attempts to peer into the house with your X-Ray vision prove fruitless, with the most you getting through the walls a blur of useless colors. You curse your Pa’s stubborn refusal to let you help him remove the old lead-infused paint that’s been beneath the house’s outdated wallpaper since the early sixties.

Okay. Priorities are to get Ma and Pa out of harm’s way first, _then_ deal with the intruder. 

If Conner's been downed somehow, then it's likely the threat is either magic or psychic. His heartbeat is strong and untouched, so a good distraction should give him enough time to recover from any attacks. Once he's back on his feet, the two of you can handle whoever's made the mistake to threaten Ma and Pa together.

You steel yourself. Ma and Pa, then the intruder.

With a gust of air you burst through the side door and into the kitchen, slowing down just enough to secure both Ma and Pa out of their chairs and into your arms before you speed back to the barn. You make sure to hold them steady as you set them back on their feet—superspeed can put a lot of strain on people who aren't used to it—and give them a smile.

“You’ll both be safer out here.” You assure them; Ma’s eyes are wide with surprise, Pa just looks tired. They don’t have any visible injuries though, so you breathe a mental sigh of relief. “I’ll be right back.”

You fly back into the kitchen, readied for the immediate attack that any self-respected villain would obviously attempt now that you’ve revealed your presence to them.

It doesn’t come.

“. . .I, uhm. . . He-Hello?”

Tucked into the corner of the breakfast nook, the nonhuman boy cowers behind his stack of pancakes. He has the same leather-like skin as Vriska, if not with more of a brown tone beneath the surface, and the horns of a bull. His septum piercing is shaped like a bull’s would be too. From the chair beside him, Conner waves.

“Oh, Clark, you’re home. Glad to see made it.” He points to the platter of pancakes in the center of the table. “Do you want some?”

You blink, feel the hot glow of your heat vision fade. “What?”

Conner fiddles with the dishes around the platter for a moment before he produces a plate of three pancakes and a glass of orange juice, all while outright ignoring your question. He sets them in front of the chair across from him—the only spot at the table still left unoccupied, squeezed into the corner of the square table between where Ma and Pa had sat—and gestures for you to sit.

“Ma made breakfast.”

You stare at the food. “Wait, no, I—” You shake your head, breaking eye contact with the plate and then feeling silly for thinking that you’d held eye contact with it in the first place. “Conner, don’t distract me!”

“But she even made blueberry ones. Those are your favorite.” Conner insists, brows furrowed like he doesn’t understand what the problem is. “Are you alright? You look like you’re freaking out. Also, where did you take Ma and Pa?”

You blink your eyes almost rapidly in response to that because _clearly_ at least one of your visions must have malfunctioned.  Why is he so calm right now? If anything, _Conner_ should be the one startled at the idea of a dangerous alien at their dining table! “They— They’re in danger. _You’re_ in danger!” You insist, and glance at the alien—the _Troll_ to be precise, you’d almost forgotten the species had such a ridiculous name—to make sure he doesn’t decide to try anything while your attention is split.

“ _Danger_?” He squeaks, startled.

Conner looks unconvinced. “No we’re aren’t.”

You settle the clone with a serious look. “You texted me I needed to get back to the farm. You said ASAP.” You remind him.

“Yeah, for _breakfast_ _._  I didn't want yours to get cold. Pancakes aren't as good if they've been microwaved.”

“You only text when you’re in an emergency and it’s too dangerous to call. You hate waiting for a response — you get impatient and break the phone.” You reason, because the longer you're here, the less it makes sense. You point to the alien, who all but cringes. “Have you read the APB the Mister Terrific sent out? This alien is a Troll, Conner! There's a warrant out for any Trolls or associated metahumans, mandated for all heroes involved in the Justice League. Even if I didn't want to, I'm _required_ to arrest him.”

“Well, I’m sure you can arrest him after breakfast.” Conner says with a shrug. “He isn’t going to go anywhere right now, though. Look, Ma made him pancakes too. And you know how she is.” He points at the alien’s plate like you somehow wouldn’t be able to see it otherwise.

“Wh-Which was, uh, much too kind o-of her.” The Troll interjects, then shrinks back when your attention turns back towards him. “S-Sir.” He adds.

You look at him, take in the differences between him and the multitude of medical shots of Vriska from Belle Reve. His teeth and nails don’t quite match, fangs far blunter and claws smoothed down to rectangles, but his thick shoulders and arms more than make up for it. The other alien’s eyes are bigger too, eyelashes thicker and longer, with the subtlest hints of chocolate creeping in around his iris rather than Vriska’s blue tinge.

He looks scared. He looks _young_.

You try not to sigh. It's hard to be on high alert when the intruder looks like _he's_  the one in danger, and it's even harder not to feel guilty for his pathetic attempts to duck behind his breakfast. 

“Look.” You rise off the floor to float just in front of the table, but keep your voice level and calm. “I’m sure you mean no harm—”

“ _Clark Joseph Kent_!”

With all the righteous fury of a Tornado Alley windstorm, Ma bursts back into the house with Pa on her heels. She doesn't seem to mind him though, doesn't seem to mind anyone but _you._ Ma marches through the kitchen without a beat of hesitation, right up to where you still hover above the dining table, and does her best to get in your face — the solid foot of height difference be damned.

You don't think she's been this mad in a long while, not since you were still a kid and put a hole through both of the grain silos with a baseball.

“Wait, Ma—”

“Don't try and ' _Ma_ ' me, Clark!” She interrupts. “I don't know what on Earth has gotten into your head, young man, but I _know_  I didn't raise a son who thinks it's acceptable to be so rude! Whisking your parents out from the middle of a perfectly good breakfast, _especially_  when there's a guest?” Ma outright scowls at you — _scowls_. “Clark, I would appreciate it if you told me what happened to your manners while you were out in space with those Green Lampost friends. To me, it seems like they were lost somewhere out on the trip.”

Pa puts a hand up to hide his amused smile, while Conner doesn't even bother. You aren't sure which you find more offensive.

“That alien—”

Ma only looks more irritated as she brushes past you to stand beside his chair, putting a protective arm around the Troll's shoulders. “Is a _guest_. I found Tavros out in a barn last night, helping to soothe old Bessie and her new calf while it stormed — we all know how she gets when it rains, it makes her bones ache and bothers her so bad the poor dear can’t get a wink of sleep. I’ve never seen a boy handle a cow with so much much skill! The rest of you boys could care to learn a thing or two!” 

Ma shoots the alien, apparently named Tavros, an affectionate look. He blushes—blushes _brown_ —and ducks his head, this time more for embarrassment rather than fear.

“Then, after he'd put Bessie and Macie to sleep, that sweet boy told me he was all alone. He's been sleeping in barns all around town for _three weeks_ , Clark.” Ma says. “I told him your room was open.”  

“Uh, th-thank you again, Mrs. Ma Kent.” Tavros mutters with an expression torn between a small relieved smile and a pensive frown. He throws the occasional worried glance in your direction, as if he's ready for you to attack him with handcuffs at any moment.

“Look, Ma, I understand that you want to help him out, but Tavros is wanted by the League Justice.” You tell her. “And I can’t just leave him here. We don't know enough about them, it's too dangerous.”

Ma harrumphs. “In case you forgot, Clark, your Father and I spent eighteen years raising a dangerous alien without any silly _Justice League protection._ ” She pointedly remarks. 

You flush. “ _Ma_! This is different!”

She gives a stubborn shake of her head. “Tavros wouldn’t hurt a fly! No one who handles animals as well he does is a danger to anyone — animals know the bad types when they see ‘em. Now, we're all gonna sit ourselves down and enjoy this lovely breakfast I slaved over all morning before it gets cold.” Ma says, voice a tone that makes it clear that there's no room left for an argument. 

With that, Ma takes her seat and unfolds the checkered napkin beside her plate over her lap. Pa does the same, reclining back into his own chair and taking a drink from his mug of coffee. 

That leaves you the only one still on your feet, and when Ma notices that she sends you a sharp look.

“If you cause me any more problems about this ridiculous warrant nonsense, Clark, then I’ll no choice but to withhold your pie privileges for the next month.”

Your stomach drops and feel yourself pale. No pie. For a _month_. 

“Yes, Ma.” You respond faintly.

Ma nods to herself, looking satisfied. “Good.” 

As you take the first bite of your pancakes—blueberry really _is_ your favorite, and there isn't a place in the world that can make them anywhere near as good as your Ma can—there's a moment that you debate just how you'll explain this to Question. You imagine he'll be less than amused, if the roadblocks with Jade were any indication.

“Hello, uh, Clark?” Tavros nervously offers. His head is bowed and his plate already half-emptied, but he stares at the remains like they're the most interesting thing on this side of the Sun.

Both Ma and Pa are distracted with Ma's incessant badgering of Conner's lovelife, with Pa in near stitches at Kon's bright red blush.

You meet the kid's anxious gaze. “Yes, Tavros?” You say.

Tavros runs nervous fingers through his faux-hawk, arm looped almost naturally around the wide diameter of his horn. “Uh, I just wanted to say that, um. Well, Mrs. Ma Kent makes really g-good pancakes. Do you come over for breakfast every, uhm, everyday?”

“Tavros, sweetheart, I told you to call me Ma.” Ma butts in, voice soothing. She throws you look, as if she were daring you to be anything but perfectly polite.

You remember her very real threat and suppress a shiver.

“She tells everyone to call her Ma.” You tell him after a moment. The warrant for invading Earth aside, Tavros doesn’t seem like that bad of a kid. “And I come by as often as I can, and for all the major holidays. Usually, my wife Lois likes to come with me when I visit.”

The rest of the meal is full of pleasant small talk and the ever enjoyable company of your family. Still, you spend half of it dreading the moment you might slip up bad enough to lose pie privileges and the other half dreading the moment you have to tell Question that his next potential lead is under the protection of the unmovable Martha 'Ma' Kent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it makes up for anything, we would just like to bring attention to the fact that several of the tags have been either added, deleted, or exchanged for something more appropriate. This should be the last tag edit for the foreseeable future.  
> —Illmerica


	14. acce22 granted iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 00110001 00110111 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 00110011

\-- Oracle [Oracle] accessed TROLLIAN  --

\-- Oracle [Oracle] began trolling twinArmageddons [TA] \--

Oracle: TA?

TA: mhmmm do you 2mell that?

TA: that2 the 2weet 2weet 2mell of defeat

Oracle: I’m here to talk business, TA.

Oracle: If you aren’t willing to act serious long enough to strike a deal with me, then I can just sign off right now.

TA: 2tiick up your a22 much

Oracle: Are we going to do this or not?

TA: of cour2e we are

TA: iive already put 2o much tiime iinto thii2 that ii would bee a total nookbraiin two ju2t giive up liike that now

TA: one que2tiion though

TA: what made you cave 2o quiick? iit cant ju2t bee that ii know your name

Oracle: You’re right. It wasn’t.

Oracle: I went back and read the other conversations we had, thought your proposition over for a while. Then I realized something.

TA: pfff and ju2t what ii2 that

Oracle: I realized that you’re desperate for me to work with you.

TA: are you 2ure about that

Oracle: Can’t say there’s any other reason that you would contact me in the first place.

Oracle: You said so yourself, if I find you then it’s Game Over, remember?

Oracle: You can hide behind your bravado and technical skills, that’s fine. I won’t make you feel too bad about it. I’m not that petty.  But either way, the end of the line is that you can’t accomplish whatever it is you’re trying to do without my help.

Oracle: If you could, then you wouldn’t have risked bringing attention to yourself in the first place.  As much as I loathe to admit it, you’re just too smart for that.

TA: aw you thiink iim 2mart

TA: iim flattered BG

Oracle: Don’t be.

Oracle: So, do you want to tell me what you know or have I just wasted ten minutes of my life I’ll never get back?

TA: fiine fiine iim fiinii2hed

TA: we can get 2eriiou2 now

Oracle: Thank God.

TA: 2o where do you want two 2tart

Oracle: How about a little more background information first?

Oracle: Some when, where, and why about “my guys”.

TA: there ii2nt much ii havent already told you wiithout gettiing 2peciifiic

TA: let2 ju2t leave iit at ‘ii have the general whereabout2 of 2ome people that you miight liike two have on your bat-watchlii2t’

Oracle: Okay, and you refuse to give me their names because?

TA: becau2e that would bee puttiing my2elf iin danger liike an iidiiot

TA: whiich we both agree ii am not

Oracle: So you can’t give me names to help me find them for whatever reason, fine.

Oracle: What CAN you tell me?

TA: 2o far there are four iive found

TA: let2 call them a22hole #1, #2, #3, and that other guy

Oracle: That Other Guy?

TA: yeah he2 not a total a22hole

TA: mo2t of the tiime

TA: hence ‘that other guy’

Oracle: Sure, whatever. Just keep going.

TA: 2o iit2 ea2iier to poiint you iin the diirection of the people that #1 ii2 wiith then where he ii2 hiim2elf

TA: ii mean a2 obnoxiiou2 a2 he can bee he2 al2o a pretty 2liippery ba2tard

Oracle: Well, who is he with?

Oracle: Or can you not say their names either?

TA: eh iit 2houldnt matter

TA: #1 found hiim2elf niice and cozy wiith tho2e two craziie2 from arkham

TA: you miight better know them a2 harley quiinn and poii2on iivy

TA: or ii gue22 more liike Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy

TA: but whatever you know what ii mean

Oracle: What!?

Oracle: Those two went off the grid after they escaped! Do you know where they are?

TA: ii couldnt you giive an addre22 or anythiing but ii have a good iidea

TA: after all theiir newe2t hiivemate ii2nt the mo2t 2ubtle

Oracle: You just said #1 was slippery, which is it?

TA: okay lemme put iit liike thii2

TA: a2 far a2 ii can tell riight now #1 ha2 been goiing on a temper tantrum through the ciity becau2e he mii22e2 hii2 gloriifiied baby2iiter

TA: the new2 call2 hiim honk  whiich iis a pretty fuckiing 2tupiid name iif you a2k me

TA: but wiith 2ome of the bull2hiit name2 you guy2 giive your2elve2 ii gue22 iit could bee wor2e

Oracle: You’re kidding me.

Oracle: Honk has been terrorizing Gotham for almost two weeks straight, and you couldn’t you have bothered to mention this a little earlier?

TA: ii mean ii couldve

TA: but you diidnt giive me a rea2on to giive you the iinfo earliier

TA: 2o actually no

Oracle: Fine.

Oracle: Now who else?

TA: waiit really

TA: you arent goiing two demand ii tell you more about hiim and were ju2t goiing two move on

TA: ju2t liike that

Oracle: If one of these mysterious people I’ve agreed to find is Honk, then I can only imagine who else will be on this list.

Oracle: So yes, “ju2t liike that”.

TA: well okay then

TA: a22hole #2 ha2 managed two keep hiim2elf mo2tly hiidden

TA: ii mean ii wouldnt have even found hiim iif ii diidnt know that nook2ucker fucker so well

Oracle: Wait, are you telling me you personally know these people?

TA: unfortunately

Oracle: What the hell?

Oracle: What is this? Some laundry list of old contacts you’re too lazy to go out and find yourself?

Oracle: I’m not your errand girl, TA!

Oracle: There are more important things on my To-Do list then help some twerp meet up with wanted criminals.

Oracle: Things like finding where Honk is holed up before anyone ends up dead.

TA: hey ju2t becau2e ii know the2e guy2 doe2nt mean ii LIIKE all of them

TA: but you dont ju2t have two take my word for iit

TA: you 2aiid iit your2elf honk ii2 a menace

TA: liike u2ual

TA: 2o really iim doiing u2 both a favor here the guy2 ii want put iin jail are al2o the one2 you want iin jaiil

Oracle: I don’t know anything about you!

Oracle: At best you’re just some punk you found my server and decided to mess with me, and at worst you’re some kind of internet-based criminal who wants me to take out old friends or old enemies, or whatever these people might be to you.

Oracle: And yet, despite all that, you want me to take your words at face value and to help you? 

TA: when you put iit liike that iit 2ound2 liike a bad iidea

TA: but yeah pretty much

Oracle:

Oracle:

Oracle:

TA: you are one of the neediie2t people ii have ever met and that ii2 really fuckiing 2ayiing 2omethiing

TA: here how about thii2

TA: iill tell you when my wriigliing day ii2 or my heiight or 2ome other ba2iic 2hiit each tiime we talk 2o you dont alway2 biitch about me beiing 2ketchy a2 fuck

TA: that way youll get the iinfo you need AND youll get two try and fiind me iirl

TA: ii mean iit wont work but hey iif iitll make you feel better and let u2 get past thii2 tru2t bull2hiit then whatever

TA: iit can bee part of our deal

Oracle: Alright, I accept. Give me your first piece of basic shit.

TA: hmmm how about

TA: ii have red and blue eye2

Oracle: Heterochromia iridium, huh?

Oracle: Start me on easy mode then, that’s fine.

TA: okay cool now that weve 2ucce22fully untwii2ted your pantiie2 can we keep goiing or what

Oracle: Go ahead.

TA: 2o a2 ii wa2 2ayiing

TA: #2 ii2nt actually all that dangerou2 by hiim2elf iin fact he2 a complete pu2hover

TA: hii2 biige2t 2trength ii2 that he2 good at makiing friiend2

TA: dangerou2 friiend2

Oracle: I feel like you’re leading into something with that.

TA: well there2 thii2 one guy he2 met up wiith

TA: from what iive heard he2 pretty tough 2tuff

Oracle: Am I actually going to have to ask?

TA: heh nah iim ju2t tryiing two pii22 you off

TA: ii dont know much ju2t that #2 managed two make friiend2iie2 wiith red hood

TA: liike iim not one for compliiment2 but RH ii2 2urprii2iingly good at coveriing hii2 traiil

TA: 2o all ii have for now ii2 that #2 ii2 wiith hiim

TA: 2omewhere

Oracle: That could be why Red Hood’s become so aggressive, especially since we haven’t been able to tell what’s provoked him.

Oracle: No one ever considered there was someone else with him.

TA: well ii can tell you that whatever2 goiing on defiiniitely ii2nt becau2e #22 been eggiing hiim on

Oracle: #22? 

TA: no liike #2’s

Oracle: Oh my God, this stupid typing quirk is RIDICULOUS.

TA: heh yeah tell me about iit

TA: anyway yeah #2 ii2 pretty 2queamii2h he wouldnt bee all for the death and de2tructiion 2tuff

Oracle: Well, maybe if it isn’t that #2 is outright asking Red Hood to act out, it’s more that Red Hood wants to impress them.

Oracle: After all, he has a bad habit of wanting everyone to know just how badass he is.

Oracle: Not to mention how much he knows it would piss off Batman.

Oracle: If Red Hood really has befriended one of these people, and it’s someone he likes enough to keep them safe, then I could see that as enough motivation for him to try and prove his strength to them.

Oracle: Whether they liked it or not.

TA: cant 2ay ii know the guy well enough two agree but 2ure let2 go wiith that

TA: #3 ii2nt 2omeone iim partiicularly clo2e wiith but he2 about a2 2ubtle a2 a freiight traiin

Oracle: What? Is this guy friends with ANOTHER person who’s made my life a literal nightmare for the past month+?

Oracle: Who would it be this time?

Oracle: The Riddler? Penguin? The fucking Calendar Man?

TA: no he 2hould bee alone

TA: ii thiink it would bee be2t explaiined by thii2

Oracle: Is that...?

Oracle: What does the recent heat wave in the Northern Hemisphere have to do about #3?

Oracle: Wait, no.

Oracle: Unless you’re saying that #3 is somehow responsible for it???

TA: giive the lady a priize

Oracle: And just how do you know that a single person is somehow causing an ecological crisis?

Oracle: We’ve been running surveillance on every single weather themed villain in our databases.

Oracle: They’re all either still incarcerated, dead, or have officially been cleared of suspicion after heavy consideration. There’s no way any of them could be responsible.

TA: ii never 2aiid iit wa2 anyone you know

Oracle: ...It’s someone new.

TA: new two you maybe

TA: he2 pretty much ju2t a braiin dead iidiiot

Oracle: A brain dead idiot who’s causing havoc on the livelihoods of Russia, Scandinavia, and the nomadic groups in Canada and who doesn't look like he's going to stop until he hits the equator.

Oracle: Is he in Gotham too?

TA: no he2 where the hot aiir ii2

TA: otherwii2e there wouldnt bee any hot aiir to begiin wiith

Oracle: So he controls the air itself? Then why is it so hot?

TA: 2ee you later BG

Oracle: See me later? What?

Oracle: You haven’t finished #3 and we haven’t even gotten to #4!

Oracle: If you smash that computer, I swear!

\-- twinArmageddons [TA]‘s computer was smashed! --

Oracle: Every goddamn time.


	15. Question: Hope This Works

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’d glared at the phone. “I’m going to get _something _truthful out of you — even if I have to wring it out of you by force.”__

Question ==> Hope this Works

There are days that you consider murdering Vriska Serket. Again.

Bad information from a bad informant. It was commonplace in the detective world, an unfortunate side effect of work that relied so heavily on other people's’ word. You know that most of your colleagues believe it’s your main source of intel, the main fuel to your crackpot theories. They couldn’t be less correct. You’ve always been a stickler for the truth — even if the truth happens to be unconventional or, in some cases, unbelievable.

The truth right now, though, is that Vriska has lied to you.

She had sworn on her literal deathbed that she would give you anything you needed if you’d helped her. And like a complete fool, you’d believed every word she’d said. At the time it had made sense, it had seemed so convenient that you’d known that there was no way you could’ve turned her down.

It _had_ been convenient. Too convenient.

Though, not _all_ of it had been lies—the reports from the Green Lantern’s expedition had made it clear that Jade Harley was just as ridiculously powerful as Vriska had said, and her symbol had been correct—but that wasn’t enough. Jade’s refused to speak to you about much of anything beyond clarifying a frustratingly small amount of Vriska’s lies, and Vriska herself had been too preoccupied laughing her ass off when you’d called her cell to let her know just how little you’d appreciated the trick.

You hadn’t cared whether the nearest Data Processing Room to Jade’s interrogation room was occupied or not. The door had opened so you’d made your way inside, seated yourself at a computer and hammered out a demand to talk with the biggest pest you’d ever met. She’d accepted the call, if for nothing more than to make fun of you.

“ _You told me they were all Trolls_.”

“Okay, so _maybe_ I had some specifics wrong, but it’s no big deal!” Vriska had admitted, casual, her tone not even shy of an obvious gloat. Then she’d started to snicker. “You’ll manage. I mean, you have their names now, don’t you?”

You’d glared at the phone. “I’m going to get _something_ truthful out of you — even if I have to wring it out of you by force.” In retrospect, it wasn’t the smartest move to make outright threats on a monitored call line but, to your credit, you’d passed your wit’s end over a week ago. There wasn’t much left but threats.

At that, Vriska had burst into laughter. “I would loooooooove to see you try!”

You had canceled the transmission after that, tired of listening to her outright laugh at just how gullible you were.

Still, no one had ever accused you to be a man of empty threats. Vriska could mock you all she liked but she would tell you everything you needed to know, whether she liked it or not. This isn’t your first time dealing with difficult informants, and it wouldn’t be your last either. You _will_ win.

And you knew just how to do it.

The infamous Lasso of Truth was no longer an option, with Wonder Woman just having left for Themyscira. It had been filed as a prominent Amazonian holiday and tradition, one she was required to attend due to her status as Princess and the island’s ambassador to Man’s World. You’d never planned to need it, but had begun to reconsider at Jade’s arrival.

You suppose that it was good that it wasn’t an option anymore, then.

Instead you contacted Amanda Waller, the current head warden of Belle Reve, and requested that she move Jade Harley and Vriska Serket into a pair of neighboring cells as far as possible from all over inmates.

The walls were reinforced concrete and steel on three sides, and the doors and the wall that connected the two rooms made from a bulletproof plexiglass. Air holes in both the doors and wall let noise pass through, so each occupant could speak with each other.

You’d let them stew in the cells for a few days while you had poured over each and every last note that was made on their personalities, their strengths and weaknesses, and their abilities. You had also monitored their relationship — whether they could easily become hostile to each other, how much the girls seemed to trust one another, or any other detail that might be useful. Neither seemed particularly close to the other, which suited you just fine. It was less likely they would believe each other’s word over yours.

Then, as the second week of your official Justice League sanctioned investigation of the Trolls ended and the third began, you struck.

“Well, here we are.” Waller says, and gestures towards the pair of cells the guards stopped in front of.  Through the plexiglass of their doors, both of them peer out into the hallway.

Jade grins and waves. Vriska smirks.

“Hello, Mister Question!” Jade greets as she hops out of her chair, skirts dragging behind her. She’d outright refused the prison jumpsuit when she’d first arrived—her argument being that she wasn’t allowed to change out of her clothes—and you guess the Belle Reve staff must have just given up on the hope that she might change her mind.

You give a polite nod. “Good afternoon, Jade.”

Unlike the other girl, Vriska makes no effort to get up and greet the newcomers. Instead, she just lounges back on her bed like it’s a throne, not a piece of steel embedded in the wall that only just passes government regulation.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Q! Come crawling back for more? _Ha_! Tell me hotshot, how does it feel to get outsmarted?” Vriska laughs when you don’t respond. “Aw, don’t feel too bad! You aren’t the first sucker to believe anything that comes out of my mouth like a braindead grub.”

You continue to ignore her, and turn towards Waller. “Thank you for your help, Ms. Waller. I assume you have more important things to be doing than to stay down here with us, so I won’t waste any more of your time.” You motion towards the doorway that you’d just entered from. “Take your guards with you as well.”

Waller raises an eyebrow, thick lips pursed. “Do you want them to stay outside the door?”

Behind your mask, you gave a sardonic smile. Out from the front pocket of your trenchcoat you pull a familiar remote — now upgraded to have _two_ buttons.

Jade may have refused a jumpsuit, but she’d worn the disciplinary collar without much complaint.

“I’ll be fine.” You assure her. “Just go do your job.”

Waller gives a single, far too professional nod and snaps her fingers. The two accompanying guards somehow manage to straighten further at the sound, motions almost robotic, and follow an exact three paces behind her out of the hallway. A pair of thick reinforced steel doors slam closed behind them, the sound multiplied by their weight.

And then there were three.

“ _Finally_! I hate all those straight-faced bastards. Like, what kind of creep just stands around to watch some girls sleep? For their _job_.” Vriska complains to no one in particular. “It’s like everyone who works here is a goddamn sadist!”

Jade tilts her head. “Wouldn’t that make us the masochists, though?”

After a moment of thought, Vriska wrinkles her nose. “You know what? Forget it.”

“Erm.” Jade’s mouth twists. “Yeah, we can do that.”

Ignoring their conversation, you carefully place the remote back in your pocket and then take out a key. Almost immediately, Vriska’s eyes are on it.

“What’s that, Q?” She leans forward from her reclined position, eyes narrowed to make out what’s in your hand. “Oooh! A key? Is today another field trip, or are you going to beg me to tell you more?” Vriska bares her teeth in a vicious smile. “I know we had a deal and all, but I thought you’d already realized I just wanted to fuck with you.”

You make a point not to respond and then an even bigger point to walk past her cell’s door, on towards Jade’s instead. She blinks at you from behind the glass, caught off guard the sudden attention. It was obvious she too had assumed that you were there to speak to Vriska.

“Jade.” You start, voice clear and civil. “If you don’t mind the interruption, I have a few more questions that I didn’t quite get to in our initial interview. I was hoping you would humor me and see if you might want to answer some of them?” You make sure to phrase it as a question, make sure to sound patient and calm.

Everything hinges on this. Jade _needs_ to let you inside, and _quickly_ ; if you have to be insistent and force your way into the cell, Vriska will realize something’s going on. She’s arrogant and a complete pain in your ass but, as much as you hate to admit it, she’s far from stupid.

Jade frowns, looking pensive. “I mean, I’m not busy  or anything.” She admits. “But, um, I told you I plan to plead the fifth, remember? I’m not going to tell you anything more than I already have, Mister Question.”

“Then how about this? You can just listen to what I have to say and decide if there are any exceptions.”

Off to the side, Vriska’s snorts. “Um, Q? Earth to Question! What’s with the cold shoulder here?” She calls, and follows it with a fake forlorn sigh. “And here I thought _I_ was your favorite captive.”

“Jade?” You prompt.

Vriska makes a noise similar to a hiss from her bed, which catches Jade’s attention and causes her to glance between the door and the wall. Your heartbeat picks up in anticipation.

 _Come on_ , you mentally urge, _I have something important to tell you, just let it happen._

After what feels like far too much time, Jade shrugs. “It couldn’t hurt?” She relents.

You breathe an internal sigh of relief. “Perfect.”

The door has three locks — a fingerprint scanner, a keypad, and an actual physical lock with a key. You take great pains not to look as eager as you feel, and undo each with slow methodical movements. Once the fingerprint is all that’s left, you pause to take the remote out from your pocket and hold it up.

“Don’t forget that I have this.” You remind her. “It won’t feel nice if I have to use you.”

She laughs, places a hand on her chest. “No worries, Mister Question! Here, I’ll even step back from the door, if it makes you feel better.” Jade floats back over to her desk and takes a seat. “See? I’ll stay right here!”

The door squeals against the sterilized white tile floor as it swings open. You put your glove back on with a single swift pull, and from the corner of your eye you catch Vriska wrinkle her nose in annoyance. It seems like she’s started to get legitimately frustrated. All the better.

“I trust you, Jade.” You lie.

You walk towards her and pull a sealed manilla folder out from your trenchcoat, run your thumb across the small strip of tape that keeps it closed. A piece of paper on her desk catches your attention before you can continue, and you give it a twice-over.

The page is numbered one to thirteen. _Vriska Serket_ is filled in on thirteen, _Jade Harley_ on twelve. None of the other numbers have anything beside them, but there’s looks to be some kind of word bank with letters—initials, maybe—written along the bottom. Most initials are alone, though a good handful are grouped into sets of two and there’s a single alliance of four. Each team seems to be circled and labeled with a number below twelve, some scribbled out and rewritten. It was almost like Jade hadn’t been able to decide which number fit best with each group.

You reach across the desk and point at it with your freehand. “What’s this?”

Jade’s ears perk up just as she does. “Oh, that? I just wanted to set up the betting table.” She explains. “There’s no reason to start with only two people, but it never hurts to be prepared! I can’t really tell you more than that, otherwise it would sort of be against the rules.” The apologetic look she’d mustered turned into a sour glare towards her neighbor. “Though, it wouldn’t be any worse than what _Vriska’s_ already done.”

“Oh _whatever_ , Jade!” Vriska huffs. “If I hadn’t done anything I’d still be in that fucking deathsleep right now.”

“You _know_ that isn’t what I’m talking about!”

Through the shared wall you catch Vriska roll her eyes, and at that Jade’s expression goes from sour to outright annoyed. You can more than relate.

“You’re just lucky that I haven’t called Davepeta yet to have you removed.” Jade tells her. “We have all these rules for a _reason_ , Vriska. You have to follow them just like everyone else does.”

“Don’t try and act all tough. If you were going to go whine to them, then we both know you already would’ve!”

This time, when Jade opens her mouth to retort, you place a hand on her shoulder. As much fun as it is to listen to them bicker about Vriska’s many wrongdoings, time waits for no man.

Besides, you’ve already finished committing the piece of paper on Jade’s desk to memory two minutes ago. At this point, it was just ridiculous to let them go on.

“Don’t mind her. All she wants to do is get a rise out of you about it.” You announce, completely aware that you yourself don’t know what _‘it'_  is, and take a bitter satisfaction out of how Vriska bristles in the other room. “I came here to talk to _you_ , Jade. Are you ready to do that?”

Vriska snaps her teeth and roughly cradles a limp pillow to her chest like she wants to strangle it. “You’re an asshole, Q!” Vriska shouts through the wall.

Jade’s eyes wander over to her, narrowed with disapproval, before she looks back and nods. “Yeah, we can start.”

“Perfect. Now, from the last time we spoke, it seemed as if you hadn’t been to Earth in some time. Is that true?”

“Hmm, I. . .hm.” She debates the question a moment. “Well, I guess the short answer is no, I haven’t.”

“And the long answer?” You ask. With the slightest hint of a smile on her face, Jade shrugs. You nod. “And am I to assume that this is because of the rules you’re meant to follow?”

“Yep!” Jade chirps. “Sorry again, Mister Question!”

You make a show of nodding and breaking the tape of the manilla folder, which catches Jade’s attention back in seconds. “That’s fine.” You say and open the folder. “I suppose that means you have no idea what your friends have done to our planet then, correct?”

Her smiles falls within an instant, and Jade’s breath stutters. “What?”

Game, set, and match.

From the desk, the words **CANADIAN PRIME MINISTER CALLS ON UN TO HELP WITH NATION WIDE FLOODING** scream up in bold print from the first article in the folder.

It’s the first of hundreds that you’ve been collecting for almost a month — each covers another terrible aspect of the Great Blackout, the heat wave in the Northern Hemisphere, or the seasonal shifts over Australia. The entire folder is a mixed shuffle of corporate news networks, small town stations, and anything from overseas that you knew enough of the language to translate, but all of them were stark evidence.

“A month ago different sections of Earth started to experience drastic, sudden alterations to their natural ecosystems. Thousands of scientists from across the globe have struggled to explain it how it happened, much less how to fix it, and no matter what we try it seems everything just continues to pile up. Until we can find a solution, our planet is set to experience a global ecological crisis for the foreseen future.”

Her green eyes almost seem to spark as she tears through the stack with more vigor than you’ve ever seen from her, scans page after page. “Oh _no_.” Jade’s voice is faint, like a whisper.

You loom over her shoulder while she reads, impassive. Her expression crumples further with each word.

“Thankfully, it seems as if I’ve found the source of the problem. Or, rather, the sources.” You continue with an air of cold professionalism, clasping your hands behind your back and beginning to pace. “You see, Jade, just as all these changes began we heard reports of a dangerous creature on the West Coast. She appeared up in Coast City first, and then was chased up the California coast by a Green Lantern until she was finally detained in Star City by Green Arrow and Black Canary. Not before Green Arrow suffered a fall that broke both of his arms and almost killed him, however, but we did still manage to capture her.”

At that, the rabid pace that Jade jumps from one article to another pauses, then stops altogether. She lifts her head and looks towards Vriska’s cell. You nod.

“Then Vriska tells me about her species.” You sweep your hand for dramatic effect, and at this point Jade’s eyes are all but glued to you. “She says that they’re hidden throughout the planet, an undocumented and unknown species inhabiting the same spaces as our defenseless citizens.”

“N-No. . .” She trails off, fists tight in her skirts. “They _aren’t_ —”

“The longer we kept her here, the less we understood. It was almost as if Vriska had some new ridiculous ability each day that she decided to share with us — mind control, sleep inducement, flight, dream invasion. Then, just as I thought I had her figured out, she proved that she could do something that a select few have ever been able to do.” You pause for what might seem like suspense, but is actually air. “Vriska could come back from the dead. All it took was a halted heartbeat, and she came back like she’d never been shot in the first place. It almost sounds impossible, doesn’t it?”

In the short moment it takes to catch your breath back, it occurs to you that Vriska hasn’t tried to interrupt yet. The thought makes you want to smile.

This is going better than you could have imagined.

“Now,” You lean in, make eye contact that she can _feel_ through the mask. “What am I supposed to think? A group of aliens land on Earth right around the time that dangerous environmental shifts begin across the globe. I don’t know what they’re are capable of, despite the fact that I have one in containment. All I know is that, if all other Trolls share the variety of powers that Vriska’s flaunted, whatever happens to Earth is inconsequential to them. I have a planet—my _home planet_ —in danger, on a global level.”

Jade looks as if she’s tempted to argue your point, and lifts her free hand like somehow she could take your words out of the air if she tried hard enough. It flinches back when you straighten yourself and fold your hands behind your back once again.

“And, last but not least, I have _you_ , Jade.” In the thick silence of both rooms, it almost sounds as if you’re shouting rather than whispering. “A person whom I was lead to believe is a Troll, but is something else altogether — a metahuman, a different alien species, who _knows_ what you are. I can’t say I care very much at this point.” You tell her. “What really matters is that I have reason to believe that, just like you, the rest of the names Vriska provided me with aren’t Trolls.”

Jade grips a forgotten article in her hands like a lifeline. It’s obvious that what you’re saying has started to get to her.

She’s a distinct shade of pallor, even despite her darker skin, and her second set of ears are pressed against her head as she breathes a bit harder than normal. A part of you wants to feel bad, the rest knows better.

Suddenly, as if she’d only just remembered herself, Vriska begins to shout and demand attention from the other room. Her forehead is pressed against the glass with her fingers curled through the wall’s holes like she’d be able to reach through and shut you up herself. Jade’s eyes don’t flicker from you once.

You press onwards. In the same pocket with the cells’ keys is two photocopies—the original kept in a water, air, and UV proof wrap in Huntress’ apartment—of the list of names Vriska had given. You pull one out and slam it on the table, and both of them jerk in surprise.

“I think the others on this list are friends of yours, Jade. Seven more unknowns with unimaginable powers. Though, not the same ones as yourself, correct? No, that would be too easy, Jade. These people have powers that allow them to wreck havoc on Earth, one ecosystem at a time.”

“No. . .” Jade shakes her head. “None of them w-would—” She stumbles over her words, rightens herself. “No one would do that, _any_ of that!” Then, as if an ugly thought had struck her, Jade’s shoulders slump and her attention falls back to the article still clutched to her chest. “Not on purpose. . .”

Even with your mask as a buffer, it’s clear she can still feel the heat of your glare. “It doesn’t matter whether they’re doing it on purpose or not. An _entire civilization_ is at stake.” You snap, but keep your tone even. “With such serious circumstances, just what do you think I’ll be forced to do once we find them? If any of them resist arrest the way the two of you did?”

Jade looks overloaded, and more than a little horrified. From the other room, Vriska doesn’t just snarl, but _roars_. The glass shakes from how hard she pounds her fists against it.

“ _Question_! If you even touch him, I _swear_ , that will be the _last thing_ you ever do, asshole! Do you hear me? _Do you hear me_! I will fucking _end_ you!”

You blink, absorbing the information and trying your hardest not to balk.

So there _is_ someone Vriska cares about on that list. You almost wonder which one of them it is. She'd never seemed the type to get attached.

“I’ll leave all of this here, in case you want to read the rest of them.” You announce, and then you walk out of Jade’s cell.

The door locks easier than it unlocks, and it only takes seconds before you’re back out in the hall. Jade doesn’t say a word as you start to walk back towards the two steel doors at the end of the hall; Vriska spits wild curses and threats through her door. Her nails shriek against the plexiglass with each swipe.

Despite this, the walk to the exit is calm and collected. You don’t pay either girl mind, which only seems to fuel Vriska’s rabid attack on her cell. The animalistic snarls and panicked breaths follow you out.

With a decisive _slam_ , the doors close. You break out into a sprint.

It takes all of three minutes to weave through Belle Reve staff, ride the elevator down three floors, and burst into the surveillance room for that wing of the prison. The sentinels in the room snap to attention at your entrance, while Waller glances over from her seat and raises an eyebrow.

“Question.” She says in lieu of a hello.

Waller doesn’t look impressed in the slightest—and, as a woman who’d based her recent career on fail-safes against possible rogue superheroes, that was the last thing you would have expected—but she looks far from annoyed. More so curious than anything, which is fair. You hadn’t bothered to tell her much in your initial phone-call.

“You made it sound as if the League would kill the rest of their people.” Waller states.

With a turn of her palm, she gives her men the signal to stand down. Both men freeze in their advancements to stop you, guns going back to their holsters.

With a reaction time like that—especially considering that they're the Prison Supervisor's _personal guards_ —it was no wonder Belle Reve had breakouts almost every other month.

You continue into the room and only stop once you're less than a foot away from the wall of monitors that Waller’s seated in front of. The monochrome colors illuminate the deep stress lines in her face like moonlight, and you can only imagine what it does to the smooth false surface of yours. Each screen is taken up with a different angle of Jade and Vriska’s cells, and the speakers echo out a tinny recreation of the latter’s frustrated shouts while she takes out her anger on her cot. Jade has taken to the floor, a mess of papers spread out around her. It’s a live feed.

“As far as I’m aware,” Waller continues. “The Justice League has strict policies on murder, both in and out of uniform. No tolerance, no matter the circumstances. In fact, wasn’t that rule the reason that your girlfriend is currently on probation? Even an attempt on crime lords like Mandragora aren't taken well.”

The last remark is meant to be a knife, aimed to bleed, but it doesn’t take much to brush the remark off. There’s no reason to give this woman a reaction.

“That rule is still in effect.” You respond, making it clear that more of your attention is directed towards the surveillance than the conversation. It doesn’t seem to faze Waller, but you hadn’t expected it to.

On screen, Vriska has turned her attention to the other girl and began to demand some of the articles be passed over for her to read. You pull a notebook from one of the inner pockets in your trenchcoat and scribble out some notes.

Waller taps her nails against the computer table in front of her. “That’s not what you implied.”

“Neither of them are familiar with the Justice League, and as such they don’t know our policies.” You explain. “It’s obvious that Vriska doesn’t have much aversion to death.  She had no problem in demanding that I kill her and admitting to her own murders, so it’s fair to assume the culture of her native planet was either violent or war-based. Maybe both. There would be no reason for her to assume Earth is any different.”

“And what about the other one?”

“More of a gamble, given I haven't spent as much time with her. I'd assumed that the possibility itself would be enough to scare her.”

From your peripheral, she nods, though it's obvious from her face that she isn't satisfied with your answers. Nevertheless, Waller gets to her feet and walks towards the door. The bodyguards beat her outside, and just before she crosses the threshold, Waller stops.

“I wonder how the rest of the Justice League would react if they were to find out that you _did_ kill Vriska Serket.”

With that final parting shot, the sound of Waller's heels click down the hall.

It's a well-known fact the Waller is never truly _above_ whatever she deems necessary to get what she wants, a fact you know more from personal experience than anything. Still, it takes a moment to reign back the flare of anger at the remark.

Both of you know it's more than a remark, after all. It's a threat.

After several seconds too long, your attention goes back to the screen. This is what you've come all this way for, after all, and you'd be damned if you let Waller of all people ruin it.

On the monitors, it seems that Vriska has finally been passed roughly a third of the stack. She sifts through them with more sporadic impatience than you've ever seen from her, on the prowl for something specific. Most likely in regards to the boy she'd gotten so protective over, you'd assume, though with Vriska it's hard to ever be sure. In the conjoined cell, Jade looks deep in thought.

 _“That fucking bastard!”_ Vriska snarls, crumpling a handful of articles and tossing them behind her. _“He wouldn't—”_ She rips another in half with a particular vengeance. _“I'll_ kill _him first!”_

 _“Stop that.”_ Jade says to her, distant and more than a little half-hearted. Her eyes are focused on a bare wall like it holds the solution to all of their problems. _“We might still need those, so don't destroy all of them.”_

 _“Oh shut up! Just shut your dumb human trap, okay? It's not like_ your moirail _is in danger from some faceless lunatic!”_ Vriska jabs an accusatory finger. _“You sound like you don't even care!”_

Her contemplative stare becomes a scowl. _“John’s my brother, Vriska.”_ She snaps. _“Of course I care about him.”_

Vriska jumps to her feet, the multitude of papers all but forgotten and trampled over as she stomped forward towards the room divider. _“Then act like it!”_ She hisses at the other.

 _“Just because I care about him doesn't mean I have to be stupid about it.”_ Jade shoots back. Her ears and tail are erect, alert, and her teeth bared as if at any moment she might pounce and tear out Vriska’s throat — be it to shut her up or just get out some frustration. _“John is going to kill_ _this planet if he doesn't act more careful, Vriska! Even if Mister Question_ did _shoot him, he would deserve it!”_

Both of them have their voices raised to full level at this point, which spikes through the speakers. You frown and fiddle with what looks to be the volume knob, the pen still between your fingers while the ink on the notepad is finally allowed a moment to dry.

All that stands between the possible bloodshed is a plexiglass wall and however much self-control Jade might have, and you wouldn’t put much stock in either. For the briefest of moments, it occurs to you that—somewhere, _somehow_ —you may have miscalculated. Maybe the two weren’t so close as to not come to blows; maybe the two weren’t close at all.

It makes you pause, focus back on the conversation. Neither girl has bothered to wait while you gathered your thoughts.

 _“What about this then?”_ Vriska slaps one of the articles to the wall for Jade to see and points at in in a way that couldn’t be described as anything but vindictive. It takes several cross references between the different camera angles to make out the headline **THE GREAT BLACKOUT PUTS THE GEM CITIES IN THE STONE AGE** on the article. _“Look! Roxy’s fucked up an entire region and I don’t hear anything about that!”_

 _“There’s a difference and we both know it.”_ Jade tells her. It sounds like she’s almost started to calm down from their shouting match, but she still has her canine-bared scowl. _“You tried to break Rule 5, and on top of that you might as well’ve broken Rule 2, but I decided to let it slide. I can’t do the same if John gets people_ killed _because he was too dumb to pay attention! It’s not like he doesn’t understand how the Breez_ e _works!”_

Vriska throws her hands up, and the article she’d held up slid down the wall without the support. Neither girl acknowledges it. _“Rules, rules, rules!”_ She seethes. _“Fuck those! It’s not like Kanaya let anyone else help write them. Fussyfangs doesn’t listen to anyone but her_ precious matesprits _!”_ In a clear mock, Vriska pretended to swoon.

_“Leave her out of this!”_

You tear your eyes away as they start to yell at one another again, down to the quick scribbles that now cover seven pages of the notebook, but make sure to keep an ear open for any important keywords that might come up. The conversation had devolved into nothing more than anger-fueled insults and snide comments. You doubt that much more substance would come from the girls—for today, at least—so it feels safe to direct your attention elsewhere while they argued.

So, it seemed that John Egbert was not only in a relationship—a ‘moirail’, for as much the word meant—with Vriska, but is Jade’s brother as well. This brought the different surnames into question, as well as whether their surnames truly meant anything in the first place, but for now you were more than satisfied with your results.

 _Really_. There couldn’t have a better person to threaten the girls with. You can’t believe that you’d been so lucky for once.

And, while they might not have given up anything on John’s location, the two had all but said that Roxy Lalonde was somewhere in Keystone or Central. All that was left on that front was to _find her_ , and that would put the total up to three captured. Three out of _who the hell knows_.

Ha. Still, it was a nice thought.

You look over the control panel that juts out of the wall, the hundreds of command buttons and switches left unlabeled, and raise an unimpressed eyebrow. Sometimes it felt as if the staff of Belle Reve went out of their way to be unprofessional.

You press a small button to the far left and lean into where you know the audio receiver is installed into the panel. “That would be enough, ladies.” You announce. “I have all the information I need for the time being.”

On the monitors, both Vriska and Jade freeze as your voice echoes out through the speakers hidden in the corners of their cells.

A moment of complete stunned silence follows.

 _“Wh_ — _What the hell? Was he. . ._ listening _to us?”_ Jade says, and from her face it almost looks like she hadn’t meant to say that aloud. On the other hand, Vriska doesn’t seem to have the same reservations.

 _“Q? Q!”_ Her hands move back and forth between clenched fists and curled claws, and she looks as if she’s seconds from trying to scratch through her door again. _“You bastard! You’re just going to come in here, threaten my moirail, and then eavesdrop like some kind of creep?”_ Vriska spits. _“That’s fucking sick! You’re fucking_ sick _!”_

“I would just like to thank you both for your cooperation.” You say, professional and polite, just as Vriska jumps at her door again. The recorders don’t quite pick up the screech of her nails on the glass, which is nice. “ _Especially_ you, Vriska. It’s nice to see you uphold your end of our deal.”

And with that final statement, the button is released and the connection severed. Their audio still floats from the speakers but you collect your pen and notebook, make your way to the door.

You have work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was _supposed_ to be two POVs but we realized that would've ended up around 11K, so we decided to split them into two separate chapters instead. The next isn't finished yet, but we're a good halfway through it at the moment so it shouldn't be _too_ long until we finish it.
> 
> Just a heads up though—heh, puns—is that I currently have a concussion due to some bad luck and a sail on one of my tosses at Winter Guard practice a week ago. It's limited me to an hour a day on any sort of device, so that's sort of an inconvenience. Cutthroat has helped pull most of the weight since it happened because she is the loveliest sister/co-writer, and everyone should just give her a round of applause for that. A really _really_ long round of applause.  
>  — Illmerica


	16. Wonder Woman: Be Introduced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You blink, incredulous. “Curse us? Has Hippolyta decided to let in a coven of sorceresses?”
> 
> “Worse!” Mala laughs, a secretive smile growing across her cheeks. “The beloved Queen has let in a _man _.”__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY S H IT OUR LAST UPDATE WAS LIKE 2 MONTHS AGO
> 
> Welp, this is embarrassing. We had a good chunk of this done when the last chapter was released, but then again we had a lot going on at the time. Good news, Illmerica is recovered from her concussion! Bad news, the same can not be said for getting a new computer. And I'm still in Europe, an ocean away. But hey, baby steps! This chapter was one of the hardest to write for reasons beyond just real life!
> 
> As some of you will notice throughout this chapter, there are some italics words that you definitely won't immediately recognize unless you're intimately familiar with Ancient Greek cosmetics/cleanliness habits and dress. I don't really think you guys will need me to put definitions for them up here, because context basically gives it to you (or Wikipedia). Also funnily enough, Illmerica practically took a course in just that (which is how she knew so much) and I just spent 5 days in Athens, Greece for Spring Break. To any Greek readers, I hope I did the natural environment of Greece justice! 
> 
> And finally, just in case you're someone who has been reading for a while you might not have noticed we added the tag 'Illustrations'. That's because one of Illmerica's closest friends, Pinkylime, offered to do some drawings for this story. We're super appreciative, and we hope you guys are too! The first is at the end of Ch2, so go check it out and send some love! We'll be adding them as she finishes them for specific chapters, and will continue to give a head's up when we add them.  
> — Cutthroat

Your name is DIANA OF THEMYSCIRA, the Princess of the Amazons and Patron of Truth. Molded from the clay to be QUEEN HIPPOLYTA'S DAUGHTER, you were raised as the youngest of the NOBLE WARRIORS, THE AMAZONS. When Man’s World fell into chaos with the Second World War, the Gods demanded that your sisters send an EMISSARY OF THEMYSCIRA to help end the violence. A contest, Queen Hippolyta decided, would be held in which the bearer of the title WONDER WOMAN would be chosen — a contest that you ENTERED AND WON. Of the many duties required of Paradise Island’s Wonder Woman, your largest responsibility was to act as an AMBASSADOR TO MAN’S WORLD, which you’ve come to complete through your position with THE JUSTICE LEAGUE. There are many other duties beyond just those in Man’s World, however, one of which you’ve taken a leave of absence from the League to complete.

“I wish I had known ahead of time.” You remark into the earpiece of your League communicator. “If I’d been aware that you needed my services then I would have arranged a stop at Belle Reve before I left for Themyscira. I know how crucial this investigation has become, especially with recent events.”

Question makes a sound, a small huff under his breath. His frustration is more than evident. “The Lasso of Truth had been a last resort, I have other things I wanted to try before I stooped so low.” He informs you, voice short. “They _will_ talk.”

You furrow your brow at his word choice, but don’t comment. It’s clear he’s upset, whether he wants it to be known or not. The Question wasn’t known for his manners even while in a _good_ mood. “I’m sure they will. Batman wouldn’t have trusted such an important investigation to you if he wasn’t confident in your abilities.”

He snorts, _snorts_ at your vote of confidence. If the circumstances had been different you think that you’d have taken offence. “Yeah, sure. Thanks for your time, Wonder Woman.” He says with a tone of finality. “Question out.”

The line cuts before you’re able to offer a farewell of your own, but it’s just as well. Your home island has just begun to come into view, the highest peaks of Paradise Island’s mountains raised past the horizon like the rugged spires of a castle. A sense of homesickness that you hadn’t felt in years settles in your stomach at the sight itself.

How long had it been since you returned to Paradise Island for pleasure rather than work? You would think near a decade, at the very least.

The rest of the island seems to rise from the waves as you draw near, almost as if to greet your trip home. The dormant volcano at the island’s center emerges first, its high slopes of rich black soil and vibrant plant life a beacon of lively color amongst the waves. More of the thin spotted forests of olive trees creep into view atop the other mountains, just as you’d remembered.

The gentle sunlight that has always presided over the island tickles your cheeks, a nostalgic comfort from your youth.

At last, the buildings nestled between the multitude of mountains make their way above the horizon. The clean white marble of Paradise Island looks untouched and, even after thousands of years, each building still glows in the sunlight like it had just been built the day before. The large cottages and farms’ wide tracts of land that are scattered throughout the countryside manage to appear minuscule, while the main bulk of the capital is a bright bundle of garnish white spread out just South of the volcano and North of the waterline.

Further down sits the main port of Paradise Island, extended out from the capital all the way off the coast. The many fisherwomens' boats are easy to pick out from the ocean—each painted with its own unique colorful pattern—while their crews pull in the day’s haul. Gulls roll through the air in endless circles above the boats, crowing and calling as you pass them.

Among the glimmering sand of the beaches, a rather large group attempts for your attention. Even with the distance, their excited shouts and calls of your name are audible.

It’s hard to suppress the smile that threatens to overtake your face. You’ve missed home.

The sand is soft, even through your boots, and the moment you make contact with the beach you’re swarmed. Faces, both those familiar and those not, take your hands and kiss your cheeks, one after the other. You return each of the greetings in earnest, until the crowd parts to allow someone through. All of your Sisters fall into a polite silence, although not many can manage to quell their restless eagerness.

“Diana, my dearest child.” Hippolyta welcomes, her voice soft with genuine affection. It’s a familiar warmth as she takes you into her arms for a hug and kisses both of your cheeks. “It has been months since we last spoke. I trust that you have fared well?”

You pull back to meet her eyes, but don’t leave the embrace. “Man’s World has retained its usual state of affairs.” You give a joking smile. “That is to say, of course, a state of constant crises.”

Her laughter rings above the rest of the group’s. “It’s good to hear that you have not been left idle! I hope that the tournament will still suffice for entertainment while you visit.”

“It always has.” You assure your Mother.

The other Amazonians straighten as Hippolyta turns to them. “I wish to thank you all for your presence here with me on this day, my dear Sisters.” She announces. “As much as we would like to stay, Diana and I must take our leave. There is much to attend to for the coming days, after all.”

The crowd erupts in a chorus of “Yes! Yes! Go on!” and “Of course!” at her words and urge her off. You press a kiss to a few more Sisters’ cheeks before you accept Hippolyta’s offered arm and follow her from the beach.

“Come, my daughter. There is much you have missed, and many more who have missed you.” Hippolyta’s voice turns knowing at that. “I do believe I should warn you before we reach the city, however. We have revered guests for this decade’s Memorial Tournament who will be in attendance to tonight’s dinner.”

“Guests?” You repeat, surprised. There have never been guests for this particular tournament before.

Hippolyta nods. “Indeed.” She smiles again. “Some of your friends have agreed to help explain the new circumstances of the Tournament. We have decided to forgo some of our past traditions given the short-notice, as well as included some new festivities to help them feel welcomed. Especially in regards to the revered guest whom has decided to compete.”

You stall for a moment, stunned, and the sudden stop pulls your Mother back as well. She looks at you with an amused raise of her eyebrow. Despite the expression, it’s obvious that she knows the root of your confusion.

No outsider, be they revered or not, has ever been allowed to compete.

“Why, Diana, is something the matter?” Hippolyta asks, though it’s clear that she means to tease more than actually ask.

It takes a moment to remember yourself and follow her into the city again. “Of course not.”

As is to be expected during festivals, the entire capital is abuzz with a distinct form of enthusiastic energy that to flowed from Sister to Sister as the Tournament drew closer.

Merchants and craftswoman alike have their shops decorated with the traditional red and blues of the Tournament; bakeries leave their doors open to allow the delectable smells of the special seasonal desserts to spill into the streets. Hundreds of Sisters swarm through the markets, their joy near palpable, as they shopped for festive clothes and decorations or laid bets as to who the new Champion may be.

While the Memorial Tournament only occurs once per two decades, it was well known as one of the most beloved holidays on Paradise Island. A week of celebration hosted by Queen Hippolyta to commemorate the last task gifted to the Amazons by the Greek Pantheon—the original contest for the position of Wonder Woman and Amazonian embassy to Earth—was assured to be popular, after all. It kept spirits high, celebrated what it meant to _be_ an Amazon.

Perhaps that’s why it strikes you as so strange that any outsider might be allowed to fight alongside your Sisters in contest. It was the nature of the Memorial Tournament, and to have one from outside the Amazonian creed compete feels as if it would disgrace that.

Still, if your Mother has decided to allow them to compete there _must_ be a reason. Hippolyta understands the significance of the holiday better than most, and she’s too mindful to disregard traditions if she doesn’t have a good enough reason to do so. You suppose you’ll just have to wait to know what that reason may be.

You weave through the crowd behind Hippolyta, pushing the guests from your mind for the moment. There’s no reason to worry for what will happen tonight.

Not yet.

At the heart of the capital stands the Royal Palace, tall and proud. It looks just as you’d remembered it — the thick marble columns and arches that give it a certain air of grandeur; the colored glass of the floor’s mosaics that glinted in the sunlight; the centuries old sculptures carved out from the front walls of the palace and the colorful murals that cover its inner walls. Tapestries stitched red and blue with small white stars are rolled out from each from window while a bright red carpet has been laid down upon the main staircase, simple but festive decorations for the upcoming celebration.

And there, at the top of the staircase, await three beautiful women.

“There she is — _Diana_! Over here!”

It’s Mala who seems to notice your arrival first, and waves both of her arms into the air to grab for attention. Beside her, both Io and Clio follow her eyes to your approach.

You release Hippolyta’s arm to wave back, though restrain yourself from hurrying up the steps. She laughs under her breath.  “Go on. You mustn't hold back in hopes to spare my feelings, for I know how much you have missed them.”

“Thank you.” You smile, give her hand a final gentle squeeze. “I will see you at dinner tonight, Mother.”

“Likewise, my daughter.”

Within seconds of your descent to the top of the staircase, Io has already thrown herself into your arms. She peppers your face with affectionate kisses, and you cannot help but laugh. To feel the familiar warmth of her bronzed skin, the tickle of her soft cropped hair — it’s more joyous than anything else could ever be. You aren’t sure whether your heart can grow any further before it bursts.

“Diana, oh Diana!” Io gushes between each kiss she offers, her arms thrown around your neck and yours to her waist. “How long has it been since we’ve seen one another? Two years? Three? Oh, it doesn’t matter! We are together again for the time being, and that is enough!”

The next peck she attempts to give is halted by yours. “I must agree.” You say against her lips, and feel the curve of her giddy smile. “I have missed you more than words could share, Io.”

You hold her in an embrace like that for several moments, relish in her touch. It’s been far too much time since you’d last been able to hold her in your arms.

Relationships between Amazons were nothing usual and, had the circumstances allowed it, perhaps you could have spent your days like the others across Paradise Island who had found true happiness with the ones they loved — with Io. To rise each day with not just the sun, but with Io’s bashful smile and gentle hands.

When you had entered the original Tournament and became Wonder Woman, it had been knowing that the responsibilities would keep you from Themyscira for years and years at a time. Perhaps, if you’d been selfish enough, perhaps you would have asked Io to follow you to Man’s World—and she would have, she would have without a moment’s hesitation, that much you know—but she was the Head Blacksmith for the island, the Guild Leader for her fellow smiths and makers. She was needed here, just as you were needed there.

But you could still have this. These little moments, every few years, where you could just bask in her presence and love. For now, it was enough.

Someone clears their throat. Another giggles.

It’s Io who pulls back first, with embarrassed heat visible through her complexion. She spares a glance to Clio and Mala, the prior who seems occupied with the book and pen in her hands and the latter who sends a salacious wink. Io only manages to flush deeper.

“Don’t stop for us, dears.” Mala snickers.

Clio looks up for no reason other than to roll her eyes. “Ignore her.” She advises. “And do, in fact, stop. We have a schedule to keep.”

You laugh as Io extracts herself from your arms and steps back, her face hot and yours warm, and say to Clio with a good-natured smile. “You have not changed a bit, Sister.”

And, in truth, she hasn’t. Clio is just as you’d remembered her to be — dark-skinned and dark-eyed with her official’s robe a crisp white, tucked and folded in all of the correct places. Most of her attention seems to be turned towards the book she has cradled to her chest, though you know better than to take offense.

Clio’s brown painted lips are pursed. It’s a familiar expression, sardonic though exasperated. “Yes, in fact, I do still complete my _numerous_ responsibilities as the Royal Scribe with the utmost proficiency.” She mutters. “It’s just the most ridiculous thing for one to do, isn’t it?”

“Oh, lighten up!” Mala laughs. “You act like the entire island is on your shoulders!”

“It isn’t? Hmm, then I must wonder why it oftens feel as such.”

Io snorts and Mala bursts into laughter a second time, while you step forward to press a greeting  peck to each of her cheeks. “I assume this means the festivities haven’t gotten too out of hand just yet.”

“As well as could be expected when our beloved Princess decides to wait until the day of the Official’s Dinner to arrive back on the island.” Clio says with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m sure that Diana has her reasons for being late.” Io offers.

“After all of the stories we’ve heard of her time in Man’s World, I would be surprised if something _hadn’t_ happened!” Mala remarks, and moves forward to seize her own kisses. Her lips are rough despite the gloss that’s been applied over them. “It’s always one thing or another with them!”

You nod and chuckle. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Perhaps,” Clio cuts in before anyone can continue, tapping her pen to the page of the book in her arms. After such a long friendship, it’s easy to see the stress that’s begun to cover her features. “It would be best for Diana to share her tales of Man’s World as we walk. The dinner begins in four hours and all three of you look _atrocious_. Io still has soot on her, while the other two look as if you’ve never been introduced to a hairbrush!”

You attempt to run a hand through your windblown hair and wince as it tugs in a snarl of tangles. Flight, especially at such high speeds, has never been the kindest to long hair.

“Well, _I’m_ dressed!” Mala motions to her white dress and dark red stola, though doesn’t argue the point about her hair — the thick blonde locks are left down and untamed as she always wears them, even in the face of the Official’s Dinner tonight. “That’s more than the lovebirds can say, at least.”

“I came straight from the forge.” Io mumbles, and brushes at some of the black smudges of soot that covers her smith’s apron. “I hadn’t planned to leave my shop until I was to get ready for the dinner, but then I’d heard that Diana arrived and. . .” She trails off.

“That’s quite alright, Io.” You reassure, smiling easily. “Though, I do believe Clio is right. We should take our leave if we wish to be at the dinner on time.”

“ _Thank you_ , Diana. It’s such a relief to have someone sensible around again. Well, sensible enough, at least.” Clio whirls on her heel towards the palace doors. She looks down at the book in her arms, and you can almost watch as the gears in her mind begin to turn. “Now, come! We have much to do before the dinner begins.”

“I haven’t gotten the chance to tease you yet, dear.” Mala rests her arm of your shoulder as the group begins to follow after Clio. Her smile could cut diamonds and you’ve missed it. “Or decide when we’ll spar before you leave us for Man’s World again!”

Mala has been a constant companion since you were a child, still puzzled by the ways of the Amazons. She had also been your biggest competition in the original tournament to decide who would bear the title of Wonder Woman, and earned an impressive second place among the thousands of others that competed. These days Mala likes to often lament her rank of Major General to tease you, though it’s obvious that’s she’s more than content with her place on Paradise Island.

You make a point to share a friendly spar with Mala each visit home; she’s always been better with a spear than you have, but your swordsmanship has surpassed her’s since the moment you touched a blade. It’s a good challenge, and one you’ve always held close to your heart.

“After the Tournament, maybe. I have a title to defend, after all!” Mala continues with a grin and cocked eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

You laugh. “Is this your attempt to bribe a judge, Mala? How dishonorable!”

“We both know I wouldn’t need to, dear!”

Clio, at the head of the group, stops before a familiar door before you can decide on a comeback to respond with. After she’s retrieved the key from a pocket on her robes and unlocked the door, Clio ushers the group into your bedroom.

“First, Diana I _insist_ you wash yourself. I don’t mean offence, but you smell of Man’s World. Io can use the tub next, while I help Mala with her hair.” Clio instructs as she takes Mala’s hand and pulls her to the vanity. “Oh also, Io, would you fetch a few _cosmetae_ for Diana? We _do_ have a time limit.”

You frown. “I don’t need servants to help me wash and dress myself, Clio.”

Though preoccupied with fishing a brush from your vanity’s drawers, Clio waves a dismissive hand. “We have very special guests with us for this Tournament, and I will not risk that this Official’s Dinner will go as any way but how I planned it.” She says.

“That does not mean I need to be cared for like a child.” You persist.

Io glances between Clio—as she begins to drag the brush through Mala’s tangled locks, who casually picks at her nails as her head is pulled this way and that—and your expression. “I’ll be just a moment.” She announces, and exits back into the hallway.

Your frown deepens into a scowl, but there’s no point in trying to dissuade Clio now that Io has sided with her. You suppose your pride can survive a single bath.

It takes little time for Io to return with two _cosmetae_ behind her, and even less for the servants to fill the tub and herd you into the lukewarm water. Within an impressive ten minutes, the layers of ozone have been scrubbed from your skin and no tangles remain in your thatch of hair. The young women finish by applying scented oils to your skin, and then you’re sent back into the bedroom with the request to have Io come for her own bath.

You’re met by a dress the moment you cross the threshold, thrown at your chest with expert aim.

“Clio stepped out, but she said you’re supposed to wear this.” Mala explains, reclined back on your bed. Her hair seems to have been braided back, now hidden by the hood of her _stola_ , and the simple gloss of her lips has been replaced with a bright red stain instead. “Hurry up and put it on, dear! No one wants to have to see you naked any longer than we have to!” She hums, contemplative, and looks over to Io with a smirk. “Well, of course, no one but Io.”

“I—I, uhm—” Io stutters, her face bright again. “I believe that I’ll do as the _cosmetae_ says, and—uh, we should, uhm. Clio said to be quick for the Official’s Dinner, so we should—should do that.” Io manages out as she rushes into the bathroom.

The door closes behind her and Mala falls across your bed into laughter.

“She didn’t deny it, though!”

You laugh softly to yourself, stepping into the dress and fixing the straps over your shoulders until it falls correctly across your form. It’s been some time since you’ve needed to wear anything so formal.  “Don’t tease her so much. Io is sensitive.” You lightly chide.

“Mhmm, the most sensitive Amazon I know.” Mala agrees with a humorous roll of her eyes. “So sensitive she can straighten a spearhead with two hits of her hammer.”

The door opens and Clio glances up from what appeared to be a list of some sort, her _kalamos_ pausing mid-word. “Ah good, they’ve already moved onto Io.” She comments. “Here. If it doesn’t hurt _her Highness’_ honor too badly, then I can begin your hair while the servants are still occupied.”

Mala snorts from the bed.

You think it over for a moment, and it occurs to no one has told you anything of the guests that Hippolyta mentioned. “If it would be possible to share information on the outsiders while you do so, then I think I could allow it.” You counter.

Clio sets her list and pen down on the vanity’s corner and motions to the seat. “I suppose that’s a fair trade.”

Clio doesn’t speak as she wrings as much leftover water from your hair as possible, as gentle as a stampede, and brushes more fragrant oils through with her fingers. You hope that most of the scents fade by the dinner’s time; it wouldn’t do to walk around smelling like a live perfume store.

“The Queen mentioned the revered guests, correct?”

You hum in place of a nod, aware of her fingers’ tight grip. “She said that one has even decided to join the Tournament, though I can’t fathom why an outsider has been allowed in competition.” You tell her. “Perhaps it’s just me, but. . . it feels disrespectful, I suppose.”

Clio’s hands stall a moment and Mala makes a sound from the back of her throat, as if she’d attempted to clear it. You crane your neck to look at them.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

That seems to snap Clio back into action, and she uses a comb to smack the back of your head. You yelp, from surprise more than any pain. “Don’t speak of them like that, Diana! To call them outsiders and question their presence here — it’s _incredibly_ rude, as well as dangerous.” Clio says, her tone grave. “I fear how one might curse us if they’d heard the Princess speak such insults!”

You blink, incredulous. “Curse us? Has Hippolyta decided to let in a coven of sorceresses?”

“Worse!” Mala laughs, a secretive smile growing across her cheeks. “The beloved Queen has let in a _man_.”

Clio’s face goes red in anger. “Mala—!”

Any further reaction is cut short as Io exits the bathroom, the two _cosmetae_ just moments behind her. She seems to sense the atmosphere of the room, if her worried expression is any indication.

Io fiddles with the robe she’s wrapped in. Her eyes carefully move from face to face, before she focuses her attention in your direction. “I forgot to gather the clothes I had planned to wear to the Official’s Dinner before we came here. Would I be able to wear something of your’s, just for tonight?” She asks. “I can have it cleaned before it’s returned.”

You give a smile, thankful for the distraction. “Of course." You move to hop from the stool and help her through your clothes, but Clio places a hand to your shoulder.

“The _cosmetae_ can help her choose something to wear. There’s just two hours until the Official’s Dinner, and we've yet to finish your hair or even begin your makeup.”

Your lips pull thin in disappointment, though still nod. There isn’t much time to waste. “Alright.” You settle back onto the stool and turn to the mirror, with your eyes on Io’s reflection as she follows the servants. “Though, I want to hear more of these outsiders — these _guests_.” You correct yourself at Clio’s stern look and Mala snickers.

“I believe that the human term appropriate here is _whipped_.” Mala mocks.

Clio rolls her eyes as she begins to run her fingers through your damp hair once again. “And _I_ believe that you should hush.”

“The guests?” You prompt.

“Of course, of course.” She parts your hair into three segments so it can be braided. “They’ve been here for just above a month, but most of their time has been spent in the palace’s lowest levels, which the Queen has closed off for them to use at their discretion. Because of this, most of what we know is from the rumors of servants who tend to them, though the Queen has decided to. . .disclose me with additional information.”

Mala leans forward with a hand to the side of her mouth and stage-whispers. “To which Clio means she begged Queen Hippolyta to tell her more.”

“I would never!” Clio tosses a spare comb at her.

Through your own silent amusement, the sound of Io’s own soft giggles reach your ears from the depths of the closet. The lovely sound makes your smile almost double in size and, mistakened for mocking at Mala’s comment, Clio once again bops you with her comb. The smile doesn’t desist.

“ _As I was saying_ ,” Clio continues, a distinct flush of embarrassment to her skin. “Aside from an initial announcement on their presence and that no one was allowed to enter the palace’s lowermost floors, the Queen has kept them out of the public’s eye for the most part. All that has been confirmed to the public is that there are four of them, and that two appear as humans do—one of which is, yes, of man—and two. . .well, two do not.”

“Do not?” You repeat. “Well, then what do they look like, if not human?”

The smooth motions of Clio’s hands don’t falter, even as she does. “We, well—” In the mirror her reflection bites its lip and turns to Mala. The other offers little more than an unhelpful shrug. “No one quite knows.” Clio eventually says. “Any time servants go to bring them food or other necessities, all four keep hidden in their rooms.”

“I wonder why that is.” Io murmurs, stepping out from the closet in a dress similar to your own. Its olive green fabric brushes just to thighs, however, and the sandals she’s donned go to her knees rather than her ankles.

Mala shrugs again. “Maybe they’re all disfigured and hideous, and Queen Hippolyta has taken mercy due to their ugliness.” She suggests, and casually dodges the second comb Clio throws at her.

“Mala, don’t say that!” Clio snaps.

Io frowns. “That doesn’t make sense. If they were all so embarrassed of their appearances, then why would one decide to compete in the Tournament?”

As the two continue to trade theories, Clio finalizes your braid with a single harsh tug at the bottom and sweeps it over your shoulder. She waves the _cosmetae_ over, beginning to remove small pots of makeup and brushes from the vanity’s drawers for them to use.

“Keep it simple. We’re running out of time.” Clio orders; the first runs a soft cloth over your face and the second begins to mix the contents of two jars together with a small pointed brush.

“Clio, wait.” You mutter, attempting to keep your face still as a pale paste is quickly worked across your cheeks. It’s cold against your skin. “You said that was all the public knew. What did Hippolyta tell you?”

After all, with such vague descriptions, there was a lot that didn’t seem to make sense. Themyscira is hidden from most, due to the Gods’ magic, and as such visitors and foreigners were few and far in between. There were exceptions, of course, but most came in the form of Justice League members that you had personally brought to the island for one reason or another. Not to mention that their appearance alone wouldn’t be enough to sway your Mother from tradition.

No, there _had_ to be a reason that Hippolyta had allowed one of these guests to participate in the Tournament.

Clio bites at her lip again, eyes now focused on the _cosmetae_ , as she weighs her options. Both servants keep their head down as they work on your makeup, utterly silent under her gaze. From the bed, the conversation between Io and Mala has lulled, though you assume it’s because they’re just as curious.

After a moment of thought, Clio sighs. “The rest of the island will know within the hour whether I share or not, so I suppose it won’t hurt.” Clio steps forward to pick up her book and pen from where she’d first placed them, and holds them to her chest like it will help her continue on. “I’ll be blunt about it, then. The four revered guests that have visited Themyscira are Gods.”

You blink, stunned, and Io gasps. For once, even Mala is silent.

Gods. Themyscira has been visited by _Gods_.

“I don’t know much more of them than their official titles, but the Queen has assured me that they are benevolent in nature.”

“Titles?” Io echoes, bewildered. She’s never been the most devout of Amazons on the island, and it’s written quite plainly across her expression.

Clio hesitates another moment before she continues. “It’s where each God’s domain lies, such as the Great Goddess Hera’s position as Goddess of Women and Marriage. The four Gods that have graced us with their presence aren’t of the Greek Pantheon, however.”

With the base layers of your makeup finished, the _cosmetae_ have moved onto your eyes and lips. Their unfaltering motions speak years of experience, with almost no reaction to Clio’s news whatsoever. You’re polite enough to wait until the one at your lips pauses to dip her brush before any attempts to speak.

“Well what Pantheon do they come from, if not that of our Goddesses?”

“The Queen neglected to share that piece of information when I asked, I’m afraid.” Clio mutters. “I’ve done my best to quell any traditions for the Memorial Tournament that could be offensive, but it’s incredibly difficult when I know _nothing_ of where they come from.”

Mala sits up, as if something had occurred to her. “Hold on, just their titles should be enough to figure out their Pantheon.”

Clio outright scowls, an unusual expression for her to wear. “I’ve _tried_. I’ve cross referenced their titles to each documented Pantheon we have in the Royal Library, but none match.” Frustration leaks through her tone. “Even the newer sources of Pantheons that Diana has brought from Man’s World holds no clues.”

“Well,” You interrupt, eyes closed as a soft brush deposits what smells to be a charcoal-based eyeshadow onto your lid. “What are their titles? Perhaps it’s a religion that I would recognize from Man’s World that I’ve yet to bring material on, or even from beyond Man’s World.”

There’s the sound of pages flipping for a few moments, before Clio reads out. “The Eternal Goddess of Enlightenment and the Noble God of Tragedy, who appear as humans do, and the Ancient Goddess of the Past and the Ancient Goddess of Life and Passion.” She sighs again. “I found some matches to the wording of their domains, but no matter where I looked there were no other divines who divide their Pantheon between ‘Eternal’, ‘Noble’, and ‘Ancient’.”

You frown, ponder the words. “It’s definitely. . .unique. I can’t recall any that follow such a system.”

“It sounds as if Time is split between multiple Gods as well.” Io muses. “That sounds like it could become problematic.”

“Well, it’s not as if Cronos is without his own faults.” You reason. “Perhaps, for some, it works better split between more than one God. Time is a rather broad concept, after all.”

Without a word, the two _cosmetae_ step back from your stool; one moves to close the jars of makeup until they’re next needed and the others takes the brushes to the restroom to be washed. Within seconds Clio has taken their place in front of the mirror, looking over your finished appearance with a critical eye.

“It’s simple, but it will do for the short notice.” Clio says, one of the highest compliments available. “I would like to give my thanks for your assistance tonight, Sisters.”

Each bow with the smallest of curtsies, the first from her place where she wipes clean the makeup jars and the seconds from the bathroom doorway with rinsed brushes in hand. Once everything had been replaced in the vanity’s drawers, the two young women make their exit with the same pleasant silence that their entrance had held.

Clio turns back to the group once the door clicks shut. “It would be best if we all began to go our separate ways as well.” She announces. “I still have final arrangements to take care of before most of the guests arrive, and it’s my understanding that Mala has volunteered to help greet them.”

“ _Volunteered_? More like you decided that I had to!”

“It’s part of your duties as the last Memorial Tournament’s Champion to welcome them for the Official’s Dinner.” Clio says, then gives a smirk. “Also, it will keep you too occupied to cause any trouble.”

Mala crosses her arms and pouts, the true image of a Major General.

“I think Clio has a point, Mala. I’m one of the first to be seated myself with the other Guild Leaders, and there’s maybe a half hour before the first guests will arrive.” Io offers.

Clio nods, serious once again. “That’s just my point.” She says. “Diana, it would be best if you waited here in your quarters until servants are sent to fetch you; I don’t want them to have to scour the palace to find you, in case you decide to wander. In the meantime, however, you can read the notes that the Queen had composed for proper etiquette around the Gods.” She withdraws a thin packets of papers from her book and passes it into your hands. “The circumstances were quite different when Hestia visited, but they’re the closest comparison we have available.”

You have the vaguest memories of Hestia’s visit to Paradise Island and the fanfare that followed; it had been a short trip for the Goddess, less than a week on Themyscira’s beaches and mountaintops, but the Amazons had been given months in advance to prepare. It was no wonder the four mysterious Gods’ sudden appearance had Clio so frazzled.

“I will read every word.” You promise.

Clio smiles, the corners of her dark eyes tight but the smallest ounce of relief evident at your words. She has known you since childhood, and knows your promises are not meant to be broken. “Be sure to, Princess.”

A final exchange of kisses to one another’s cheeks—as well as one to Io’s lips, the soft red stain of your lipstick quickly cleaned away to avoid any scolding from Clio—and hugs are given, and the three step through the door with a promise to see you at the Official’s Dinner. Then, the room once again silent, you read.

You aren’t sure how much time passes as you pour over Clio’s notes, reading and rereading each passage to be sure that you’ve understood it to the fullest amount possible. Most of its instruction felt like common sense rather than a gospel of manners. It’s important to Clio and, therefore, important to you as well.

The further you read through the booklet, however, the more your nerves began to feel frayed.

_Do not attempt to hide your intentions from Gods. Do not speak badly of the Gods, even if they are not present. Do not assume you are more clever than the Gods._

You have no reason to fear Gods, no matter what culture or world they may be from. You’ve fought them before—and won, bloodied and battered but _victorious_ —and work alongside them to protect the people of planet Earth. There is no God that you should fear after the trials faced as Wonder Woman. Still, as the Official’s Dinner inches ever closer, the foreboding weight deep inside your stomach grows. You would almost call it fear.

It’s not fear of them as Gods, though. You would never fear that.

It’s a fear of them as _unknowns_. Unpredictable and unaccountable.

It feels childish all the same.

Soon, the bright yellow rays of sunlight have melted to a dark orange outside your window and there is a soft knock on the door. You open it to see a Sister with her hands clasped behind her back and a gentle smile.

“Princess Diana.” She greets with a bow of her head. “If you would be so kind as to follow me. It is time.”

The palace’s hallways are almost silent, so far from the main celebration, and the echo of your footsteps does nothing for your sudden nerves. It takes almost no time to reach a wide door that sits at the back of a servant’s hall; the sound of jubilant Sisters and the scent of food wafts through the dark wood. Your Sister raises a hand, then gives three soft knocks in quick succession.

There’s a moment of quiet on the other side as two _aulos_ play a short greeting tune at the servant’s signal, and a loud faceless voice follows.

“Announcing the arrival of Princess Diana!” The voice cries in excitement, and the crowd breaks out into cheers even as it continues on. “Our illustrious Wonder Woman and Ambassador to Man’s World, whose service we celebrate with this very Memorial Tournament! Everyone please rise!”

At the announcer’s command, the scrape of boots and heels reaches through the door as it is pulled open. You take your cue to enter the banquet hall.

As one of the largest rooms in the entire Royal Palace, as a child you would often imagine the entire island could fit inside. A wide triangular table took up most of the available space, with an important figure of Amazonian society at each point — Queen Hippolyta sat at the head, with General Phillipus to her left and the Head Oracle Menalippe to her right. The lines of the table between them were esteemed Amazonians of all walks of life, from guild leaders, to high ranked soldiers, to priestesses.

Your Sisters’ raucous applause continues even after you’ve taken a seat at your Mother’s right hand, with Mala—who sits at _your_ right hand, the traditional seat of the previous Tournament Champion—one of the main instigators of the excitement. She whoops and hoots and slaps her hands onto the tabletop; across the room Io, surrounded by other Guild Masters, laughs into her hand at the display and Clio, who sits five seats down from Hippolyta, pinches the bridge of her nose but smiles.

After she seems to deem the room properly energized, Mala settles back into her chair and shoots a sly grin. “What? Our Princess has to make an impression, doesn’t she, dear?” She quips, leaned in close to be heard over the commotion she’s caused.

You smile. “Well, of course.”

You turn to Hippolyta to meet her gaze. Your Mother looks flawless, as to be expected for the Queen of Themyscira on such an important night, with her so rarely used golden crown perched atop her head. Unlike the other Amazons seated at the table who share smooth wooden benches along the triangle’s sides, Hippolyta has a small golden throne to recline in.

“The banquet looks wonderful, Mother.” You compliment.

Hippolyta smile is reserved, but the warm amusement in her eyes seems to glow against the room’s candlelight. “There’s no need to give me these kind words, Diana, for I haven’t lifted a finger for this celebration.” She says and laughs with a glance to her left where Clio is seated. “Clio always manages to surpass even my wildest expectations when it comes to events such as these. If she hadn’t already reached the highest position of my staff, I would promote her.”

“I’m sure she appreciates the sentiment.” You tell her, distracted by a sudden thought, and look back over to Clio. Between where Hippolyta and Clio are seated, four seats are still vacant. “Are those for the guests?”

Hippolyta looks prepared to answer, though her response is obvious, but the loud clink of a spoon to glass catches the room’s attention first. The fuss Mala had caused dies down at the sound, and Hippolyta stands without another word in your direction.

“My dear Sisters!” Hippolyta bellows, her voice crisp and clear across the banquet hall. “To begin this Memorial Tournament’s Official’s Dinner, I wish to thank my fellow Amazonians that have come from their homes and families to share this meal with us tonight, as well as those who have worked tirelessly for us to enjoy this time with one another.” All across the room, servants bowed their heads at the recognition.

The room once again bursts into applause, though not as rambunctious as it had been for your entrance. Hippolyta patiently waits until the room has quieted before she continues.

“As I’m sure most have heard, our beloved island has been blessed to share the Memorial Tournament’s festivities with four revered guests.” Around the table, a few sisters give noises of affirmation. “I’m also sure that most are rather curious to meet them, so I would request that my dear Sisters please welcome the Goddesses and God who have blessed us with their presence at this Official's Dinner.”

The murmurs turn to loud buoyant applause for a third time, now intermixed with cries of surprise or amazement. Hippolyta gives a subdued laugh at the crowd and picks up her glass chalice, clicking it with a small silver spoon.

The pair of _aulos_ play their short tune, just as they had before your entrance. “Announcing the arrival of the Eternal Goddess of Enlightenment and the Seer of Light!” The royal announcer cries, and you join in with your Sisters’ applause. “Lady Rose!”

You watch with rapt attention as the doors are pulled open by the _aulos_ players and a young woman enters, her hands clasped behind her and her chin held high. The Goddess was rather beautiful, that much was obvious, with pale hair and skin that looked near translucent and elegant orange robes that seemed to float along with her as she walked. Taking her seat with a slight flourish, the Goddess offers a single nod to the crowd as it cheered.

As the Enlightenment Goddess seated herself, a thought of something familiar—something _important_ —occurred to you, persistent yet hard to place.

“Announcing the arrival of the Noble God of Tragedy and the Prince of Heart!” The announcer continues. “Sir Dirk!”

The sole God entered with as much regal silence as his companion, dressed in dark though vibrant shades of pink as well as what appeared to be. . .a pair of sunglasses, you supposed. His hair and skin had the same luminescent shine as the Enlightenment Goddess, with an expression of stern neutrality that lacked the coyness of her’s.

He takes his seat on the Enlightenment Goddess’ other side, beside Clio, and the thought that his fellow divine sparked begins to almost nag in the back of your mind. You attempt to brush it back, and instead cheer with the others.

“Announcing the arrival of the Ancient Goddess of the Past and the Maid of Time! Lady Aradia!”

As soon as the second Goddess enters the banquet hall to the third joyous round of applause, it becomes rather obvious why Rose Lalonde and Dirk Strider—no, no, the _Enlightenment_ Goddess and _Tragedy_ God—had been so familiar.

The Past Goddess was short, shorter than even the Enlightenment Goddess had been, and just as thick. Her long black hair was curled and wild and her flesh looked thick and slate, both rather fetching with the dark burgundy gown she wore. The most notable features, however, must have been her golden sclera and red iris and the pair of ram’s horns that erupted from her skull, colored like a sunset. Her mysterious grin showed pinprick teeth.

She was a _Troll_ — one of the aliens who had managed to land on Earth without detection. An epiphany strikes moments too late, the email that Mr. Terrific had sent out at the Question’s request that had listed eight human accomplices, including connected _symbols and names._

You go still, unsure of what to do, and don’t clap as the Past Goddess smiles and giggles the entire walk to her seat. To your left, Hippolyta sends a harsh look. To your right, Mala sends a concerned frown.

Two sets of responsibilities tug at you, pulling in different directions. You should arrest these invaders and their accomplices, take them back to Man’s World to be detained and questioned. You should clap with the rest of your Sisters for this esteemed Goddess, as manners and tradition dictate.

You have no idea which is the correct reaction.

Across the table, a gleam of purple catches your muddled attention. You look over to see Rose—the _Enlightenment Goddess_ , Diana, the _Enlightenment Goddess_ —with her vibrant purple eyes focused on you, the slightest of smirks on her dark lips.

You almost wonder what she’s thinking about.

“Announcing the arrival of the Ancient Goddess of Life and Passion and the Witch of Life!” The royal announcer cries for a fourth and final time. It takes control not to start. “Lady Feferi!”

There is an audible swoon as the final Goddess enters, and the loudest cheers yet of the room.

You don’t know what else you expect as another Troll walks into the room.

The Life Goddess giggles and blushes a bright pink at the attention, though the interest of your Sisters is well founded. She’s built like an Amazon herself, far taller than the other three and far more muscled. The Life Goddess flashes a smile of shark’s teeth, her eyes bright with excitement. There’s a particular swing to her hips as she makes her way towards the final open seat, as if her layered skirt was bobbing with invisible waves, and the faint thought that she must have been born a sea nymph flutters through your mind.

“ _Diana_.” Hippolyta hisses lowly. “ _Clap_.”

You follow your Mother’s instructions with mechanical movements and watch as Feferi blows the room a kiss before she places one on the corner of Aradia’s upturned lips.

With the tables now filled, the servants begin to bring out the platters upon platters of food. The tables opens up the gossip and chatter and far too many Amazons attempting to speak with the Gods at once. You take a drink from your chalice to do something with your hands.

A strong hand settles itself on your shoulder, and Mala leans in close. Her eyes are open with confusion. “Diana? Are you feeling alright?” Mala asks. “That wasn’t like you.”

You steal a glance to your left; the Enlightenment Goddess’ eyes meet yours for the briefest of moments and you drag your attention back. “I was struck by an unusual thought, is all. It was a mere inopportune distraction, that’s all.”

Mala frowns but nods. “If you say so, dear.”

Yes. Inopportune indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took more research than just about any other because we had to dig into Wonder Woman lore. It was a bit less fully-realized than I had expected when I found it, but still oddly fun? I'd never thought I'd enjoy writing her, but here we are. And wow are we gay this chapter.
> 
> Serious Disclaimer: all the characters we use are actual side/minor characters from Wonder Woman lore. We've kept their designs (unless they were hard to find like Clio's) and any parts of their backstory that we felt were important (Mala being 2nd place in the original tournament, Io's crush on Diana, their job titles). It was mostly their personalities and interactions that we took great liberty with. We will continue to do this with any other Amazons we introduce (it'll only be like 2, no worries). We also tried to use actual maps of Paradise Island instead of making our own.  
> — Cutthroat


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